Oceans and Moments
by RebelFaerie
Summary: Peggy had resigned herself to being the Schuyler sister nobody remembered. But that was before that winter evening, when a certain French lieutenant appeared at her sister's wedding and changed everything. AU romance following Lafayette and Peggy's adventures through the American and French Revolutions. Complete! (To my own surprise.)
1. Do Me the Honor

Written partly because I've had a really awkward crush on Lafayette since I was 10, partly because I self-identify as a Peggy, partly because I wish I could tell you what was happening in my brain tonight. A few more chapters are planned, but I haven't exactly been writing non-stop lately, so we'll see how it goes.

* * *

 _14 December, 1777_

It was Eliza's day, really. Not hers. She was only there to be supportive. To look pretty in the bridal party (not too pretty, of course, but not slovenly enough to attract attention). To pretend it didn't bother her in the slightest that Eliza had chosen Angelica to be her maid of honor, even when it could not be more obvious that she'd been making eyes at Alexander from across the church during the entire ceremony.

Of course, that was none of Peggy's business.

It didn't even make sense—Alexander was handsome, of course, but there was hardly a shortage of men at the ball thrown in celebration of his marriage to Eliza. One of the perks of a dashing brother-in-law: an absolute surplus of equally dashing bachelor friends.

But she was there to be supportive.

"Supportive," in this instance, meant waiting a full hour after Eliza and Alexander had finished their first dance before sidling toward the group of young soldiers laughing and drinking near the window. It was almost literally the least she could do.

Peggy wondered if the dark-haired lieutenant hadn't positioned himself among this group of perfectly ordinary-looking men to set himself off better. Like the Schuyler mansion itself, she thought, glittering in the middle of Albany among its unremarkable red brick neighbors. He was athletic-looking, lithe in his navy uniform with gold braid, and eye-catchingly tall. He leaned easily against the wall, but when he stood straight he would tower over Peggy by at least six inches. Unlike most of the other soldiers in Albany striving to look more aristocratic than they were, he wore no wig, and wore his hair simply tied back out of his lean face.

As she watched, he drained the rest of his glass and spoke animatedly to the stocky young man beside him.

" _Qu'est-ce que tu penses, donc? J'sais pas s'il faut se marier aussi vite que ça, mais si c'est nécessaire, c'est pas le pire choix du monde…"_

It took Peggy a moment to realize the soldier was not speaking the schoolgirl French her mother had taught all three sisters almost as soon as they'd learned English. This was the French of Paris, of a man who'd grown up speaking this way and had to make a conscious effort to speak otherwise.

The tall lieutenant's companion nudged him in the side, then nodded—to Peggy's manifest horror—in her direction.

" _On te regarde. Vois._ _"_

 _Someone's watching you. Look._

He did.

Peggy wished the floor would swallow her alive.

He grinned at his companion, then set his empty glass on the window-ledge behind him and excused himself from the group with a few quick words Peggy couldn't hear. The idea that she might flee the ballroom occurred to her briefly, but by the time she'd fully considered the notion, there he was. Standing easily beside her, a smile on his face that somehow seemed neither inappropriate nor insincere.

"You are Margaret Schuyler, are you not?" he asked—seven words and she knew she'd been right about Paris. He spoke English well, but there was still the faintest misplaced emphasis, the slight drag on his R's and U's that proclaimed French to be his mother tongue.

She dipped a small curtsey. He bowed, almost ironically.

"Yes, sir. Do you know me?"

The brilliant whiteness of his smile took her aback. She had always heard such dreadful things about Continental soldiers and their teeth. Lies, apparently.

"Alexander has talked of nothing but your family for the past month. I may know you better by now than I know myself."

She felt herself blush again, which only made her blush worse out of embarrassment.

"That hardly seems fair, sir. I don't even know your name."

He looked genuinely surprised, as though he'd been sure he'd told her already.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle Schuyler. Lieutenant Lafayette, at your service."

She frowned. "Lafayette? Do you have a full name, or do you simply like to cultivate an air of mystery?"

Lafayette grinned again. "Not at all. It is only that Americans tend to find my full name rather … overwhelming."

Peggy raised her eyebrows. "Try me."

"Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, in full."

She blinked twice. "Lafayette will do nicely."

He laughed, then wrinkled his nose in irritation at a freckled young man, also in Continental Army blue, who presumably had been making wildly inappropriate gestures of encouragement from behind Peggy's back.

"You will forgive my friends, I hope," he said. "Most of us are not used to behaving in polite company."

"The battlefield and the drawing-room require different skills, I imagine."

"There is some gentility to war, or at least there can be. I am hoping that your family's influence will have the same transformative effect on the regiment as it has had on Alexander."

"You don't seem to need any transforming to make a good impression."

Peggy's boldness surprised even her. She'd only had one glass of wine—surely not enough to justify this. Flirtation had always been Angelica's forte, the ability to catch the eye of a room without trying, to say just the right thing to make companies and battalions of men fall in love with her. But something had changed tonight. Angelica was preoccupied by the only man in the entire room she could not have. While Peggy was here with this debonair French lieutenant, who had abandoned all his friends to speak with her…

And who now kissed her hand respectfully and asked her, "Might I request the pleasure of the next dance, Mademoiselle Schuyler?"

Her entire body warm and her heart beating fast, Peggy had never before been so grateful that her parents had insisted on giving their daughters a worldly education. If she'd known what thrilling use she'd put those endless French lessons to, she would have resented the educational tenacity of Madame Dufarge infinitely less.

" _Avec plaisir, monsieur,_ " she said, paying as careful attention to the placement of her vowels as she could. _With pleasure._

The tall young Frenchman smiled and spun her onto the ballroom floor with the rest.

The orchestra had just begun a waltz Peggy had not heard before. Faster, almost mournful, in a minor key, entirely inappropriate for a wedding. It suited her perfectly.

She had seen the way Lafayette's fellow soldiers danced, had even graced a few of them with a song until their hands started drifting in directions hands should not drift, at least not with her father and sisters in the room looking on. Lafayette, on the other hand, was intimate but chaste. One hand on the small of her back and no lower, the other gently holding her hand—she had to reach up to take him by the shoulder, tall as he was, but somehow even that felt natural. He danced so well, not like someone who had learned it as a tool to seduce ladies, but as someone who danced often, and well.

She smiled, could not stop smiling, and let him lead her through the steps. For the first time that evening, she did not have to do the leading.

"You dance extraordinarily, mademoiselle."

Even though she knew he was self-translating and the words perhaps did not mean so much in French, she allowed herself to take them at face value.

"Not so well as you. Where are you from?"

He laughed and spun her through a series of graceful steps. "I would have thought that was self-evident," he said wryly, making no effort to hide his accent.

"I meant where in France," Peggy replied. "It's a large country."

"Not nearly so large as this will be," Lafayette said thoughtfully, before answering. "I grew up in Chavaniac, not far from Lyon. But I spent most of my life in Paris. And you? Were you born in Albany?"

"I've lived here all my life," she answered, just as carelessly as he had. "It's not terribly exciting."

"Excitement is not always as desirable as it seems."

"Oh? You seem to court it relentlessly."

She immediately regretted her use of the word "court," but Lafayette graciously pretended not to have noticed.

"All Frenchmen are reckless fools, I fear, and I am worse than most. My mother, while she lived, despaired completely of what to do with me."

They both realized it at the same time, the absolute crush of eyes following their motion in the ballroom. Angelica with nothing short of shock. Eliza with faint, amused curiosity. A broad-shouldered soldier she'd heard called something-or-other Mulligan, winking exaggeratedly at the Frenchman with both thumbs up—Lafayette winked back and then pretended he hadn't. And others, from both sides of the wedding party, watching as the youngest Schuyler sister and the elegant immigrant soldier put every other couple in the ballroom utterly to shame.

Peggy had never been the subject of so much attention. At seventeen, her coming-out had been overshadowed by the ever-present threat of skirmish and armed violence. She had simply appeared on the scene, and, thanks to Lafayette, Albany was finally starting to take notice.

Lafayette grinned, suggesting a thought both thrilling and stupid.

"Am I wrong in thinking there is some recklessness to you as well?" he asked.

"What?"

"Shall we give them a show, mademoiselle?"

She briefly remembered the fluid way she had seen him throw back a glass of wine—but no, he was as sober as she was. He was French, after all. Doubtless a well-aged merlot flowed through his veins instead of blood.

"This is my sister's wedding," she reminded him.

"And one of my closest friends is the groom," he replied lightly. "Why are we here, if not to have a little fun?"

She grinned back and took the lead of the dance.

The orchestra had struck up a polonaise, giving her more room to flow with the rhythm, shun the prescribed steps for where the music took them. Lafayette followed just as elegantly as he led. She imagined he probably put on his boots with that same air of unstudied elegance. Breathless they danced, close enough to feel one another's heartbeat, the warmth of his body against hers, and when he lifted her and spun her aloft without missing a beat of the dance, she thought perhaps they had died and this was heaven, where handsome lieutenants speaking perfect French whisked you away to dance all night.

But of course it could not last.

Lafayette gave her two dances, then three. As the violin let fall one last lingering note, he bowed and again pressed the back of her hand to his lips.

"Mademoiselle Schuyler, thank you for doing me the honor," he said, still smiling. "But I am beginning to notice that your father is conspiring ways to have me murdered."

Peggy looked. Lafayette was not wrong. Phillip Schuyler sat unsmiling at a table to the side of the ballroom floor, arms folded and brow lowered. He was glaring daggers at the slim silhouette of Lafayette, whose back was currently to the father of the bride.

"First Eliza, now me," she said. "It's been a difficult day for him, so many of his daughters dancing with immigrant rebels."

The way she said it, "rebels," it almost sounded like "heroes." Why had she ever thought going to war a bad idea?

"I hope we will see each other again very soon, mademoiselle," Lafayette said, still smiling with the afterglow of the dance.

Peggy was alone again, amid the whirl and crowd of the dance.

Only she wasn't. Not really.


	2. Confidential

Quick note: As a lovely, wise reviewer pointed out, this story is a tiny bit AU, because by 1777, Lafayette was already married to Marie Adrienne Françoise de Noailles. She's actually kind of awesome, and did loads of cool and badass things during the French Revolution. But I have ignored this fact, as I ignore all facts that do not suit my needs :)

There are a few other inaccuracies throughout, which hopefully won't be _too_ distracting. Like, Alexander and Eliza's marriage was actually after Valley Forge, not before, as I'm writing here. All semblance of an accurate timeline will fall to pieces in chapter three, but it's not like history requires accurate dates, right...? *shrugs*

Anyway, thanks for sticking with me! Onward and upward.

* * *

 _18 December 1777_

Alexander looked up with a start at the sound of a sheepish knock against the study door. His pen had jerked awkwardly across the page in his surprise, striking out a few lines by accident—but he would have needed to recopy the whole treatise at some point regardless. His leave would expire in four days, and he and his fellow soldiers would return to southern Pennsylvania where the rest of the army already camped for the winter. Motivated by the omnipresent feeling of time slipping away from him, he'd been writing too quickly, spilling out ideas without taking care of the shape of the sentences.

In any case, the figure standing in the doorway with a pronounced air of embarrassment was infinitely more interesting.

"Peggy?"

His youngest sister-in-law still stood half-out of the room, her hands clasped behind her back.

"I'm sorry to bother you—"

He interrupted her with a smile. "You're not bothering me. If I look at this page another minute I'm going to scream. Come in."

He had never seen Peggy look so conspiratorial. She glanced over her shoulder before closing the door behind her and sitting on the small sofa near Alexander's bookcase. He came to sit beside her and saw, not without surprise, that her hands were trembling.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes," she said, looking down at her hands. "I'm fine. But you won't tell my father what I'm about to tell you, will you?"

Alexander gaped at her, astonished. Had Peggy killed a man, or turned renegade informant for the British, or eloped with General Cornwallis? He could think of nothing else that justified paranoia of this magnitude.

"Of course not. I won't tell anyone. Not even Eliza."

Another pause, in which Peggy was clearly gathering up her courage, and then she blurted it out ungracefully.

"How well do you know Monsieur Lafayette?"

Alexander's jaw dropped. He saw the blush rise to Peggy's hairline and quickly recalibrated his expression.

"As well as I know anyone. Why?"

He thought he knew why, but the two percent of his personality capable of sustaining skepticism wanted to hear her say it.

"Is he … is he a good man?"

This was obviously not quite the question Peggy truly wanted to ask. Her embarrassment was so sharp that Alexander reasoned reading between the lines would at least spare her from having to brace herself and ask again.

"He's a smart man. A brave soldier. So idealistic I wonder how he doesn't die of shock every time a man lies to him. And," he finished slyly, "from what I hear, uncommonly handsome."

Peggy's sudden fit of irrepressible coughing confirmed Alexander's every suspicion.

"He isn't married, is he?" she asked quickly.

"Lafayette? Unless he's been hiding the habits of a family man from me all these years, I highly doubt it."

"He's European," Peggy said matter-of-factly, as if Alexander could possibly have forgotten. "Don't they do things differently on the Continent? Isn't it possible he's engaged?"

"It's possible," Alexander conceded with a careless shrug, "the way General Lee amounting to anything useful is possible. But I think even the French frown on secret wives."

The relief this sentiment occasioned made him laugh, though he knew her pride was in such a piqued state that he might well have offended her. He went on quickly, hoping to ward it off.

"If you mean to pursue our Parisian Lancelot, Peggy, you have my blessing, such as it is. You could most assuredly do worse."

To Alexander's surprise, Peggy did not seem at all embarrassed by this statement. Rather, she beamed, her smile broader than he'd ever seen it before.

"To be honest? I don't think I need to do much pursuing."

If it would not have been the rudest possible response, Alexander would have stood up and walked away, putting distance between himself and this bewildering revelation. Instead, he took a moment to compose himself, then simply asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well, since the night of your wedding, we've met a few times—in public, nothing inappropriate, of course—"

"Of course." The idea of Lafayette attempting an affront on Peggy's virtue was frankly ridiculous.

"Only a few salons of friends, a play or two. He's … he's written me poetry," she admitted, the blush beginning to creep back.

Overcome by the absurdity of Lafayette sighing in a rose garden writing love sonnets, Alexander wanted to laugh. The brilliant tactician, the irrepressible revolutionary, the young Marquis de Lafayette, overthrown by the Albany charms of little Peggy Schuyler?

But no, he caught himself, not so little. Peggy was only two years younger than Eliza, and Lafayette three younger than Alexander. Nineteen and twenty-two. It made perfect sense. He tall and dashing in his lieutenant's brass and Paris-twisted English, she green-eyed and clever, with the lighthearted recklessness of a younger daughter. A pair of children, really. In some ways their steadfast naiveté made Alexander feel stooped and jaded before his time.

It was absurd, that Lafayette should be brother-in-law as well as brother-in-arms. But at the same time, once he had thought of it, it could not be more obvious.

"Why are you telling me this, Peggy?" he asked kindly. "He's one of my closest friends. You must have known I wouldn't object."

"I had to tell someone," she admitted—Alexander grinned at her barely stifled enthusiasm. "And if … well, if he does make me an offer … I wanted to know I wouldn't be a fool to accept."

Alexander laid a reassuring hand on Peggy's.

"There's not a man alive I'd wish for you more than Lafayette," he said honestly. "And you tell him you'd best marry soon. I'm tired of being the only man with a wife in our battalion."

#

Alexander let this information settle in his brain for a few days, until the evening before he, Lafayette, Burr, Mulligan, and Laurens were due to depart Albany to rejoin the rest of their company. Always this sense of not having the time to finish what he'd started. There were essays still to write, relatives of Eliza's to meet, hours of sleep he had not profited from, a marital bed he had barely enjoyed. But the war would not wait.

Although it would have to wait until one very particular conversation had taken place.

He dashed off a quick note and sent it by one of Eliza's servants to the boarding-house on the other side of town where Lafayette had installed himself to attend the wedding. Not an hour later, he received a quick reply, written in the Frenchman's own hand, accepting the invitation to the Cross and Crown at eight o'clock that evening. Bidding a hasty—and non-specific—farewell to his wife, Alexander buttoned his coat to his chin and ducked out into the street, walking quickly against the snow.

The tavern, as he entered and let the snow melt from his shoulders, was hardly an impressive establishment. But after the whirl and pageantry of his wedding, Alexander found himself in the mood for something unimpressive. He missed this atmosphere: the hot, close air, the slurred voices too loud for the space, the occasional snatch of song or flurry of confrontation. It reminded him of Princeton, in the hazy rush of excitement before the war. Eliza didn't like him spending his evenings here, but he shrugged off her concern. Of all the disreputable things he could be doing—and her father certainly suspected him of most of them—this was a minor sin.

Lafayette was already waiting for him, drinking at a table in the corner, far from the door and the wind. He grinned as Alexander approached, and gestured at the innkeeper to bring another drink.

"American beer is pathetic," Lafayette remarked by way of greeting, as Alexander slipped off his coat and took the open seat at the table. "I am not sure you deserve your independence, if this passes for liquor."

"Uncivilized brutes to the end," Alexander agreed, taking his pint from the innkeeper and throwing a third of it back.

"Marriage is treating you well, I see. You smile more now. I am glad to see it."

"Wouldn't you smile, with a wife like mine?"

Lafayette raised his glass in an ironic toast before taking a long drink of beer, grimacing slightly at the end.

"The luckiest of any of us."

"Do you know," Alexander said thoughtfully, looking deeply into his own glass under the thin pretense that he did not care how Lafayette responded to his question. "I had an interesting visitor come by my study yesterday."

"Did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"From the way you insist on building suspense, I can only assume it was General Howe," Lafayette drawled, his accent enhancing the sarcasm.

"In fact, it was Peggy."

Lafayette turned very pale and set his glass cautiously back on the table.

"Oh?"

His voice, Alexander noted with an inner smile, was not usually that high.

"She had a very interesting story to tell me. I was wondering if you could confirm it."

It should not have given him as much pleasure as it did, watching the young marquis squirm under the question. Lafayette looked utterly at a loss, both for what to say and what on Earth to do with his hands. He toyed with the handle of his glass for a moment, folded and unfolded his hands, before flexing his fingers as if to reprimand them for fumbling about in this undignified way. Had Alexander ever seen the Frenchman awkward before? He couldn't remember.

"I … Yes. I am sure everything she told you is true. But I promise you, Alexander, I never meant, I did not, I mean to say, I am sorry that…"

"What the devil are you apologizing to me for?" Alexander asked, grinning. "She couldn't do better than you. No one could."

Relief flooded Lafayette's face, followed closely by the faintest trace of irritation.

" _Va te faire foutre, fils de pute_ ," he swore. "I thought you were about to challenge me to a duel."

Alexander pressed one hand to his heart, feigning mortal offense. "What kind of unhinged fool do you take me for?"

"Did you not challenge John Jay to a duel yesterday for failing to hold a door open for you?"

Alexander took a long drink of beer and avoided the question.

Lafayette sighed—what exactly he was looking at was unclear, but it was clearly not in the room.

"If we are being honest with one another, Alexander—"

"I'm always honest with you."

"I am not sure I have ever met anyone as fascinating as Margaret Schuyler. She is everything I ever thought I wanted, and more than I am quite sure I deserve. And were it not for this war and the next, I would brave all manner of terrors to ask for her hand."

"Including having me for a brother-in-law?"

"Yes," Lafayette agreed, again ironically toasting the sentiment. "Even something so dreadful as that."

Between the low thrum of conversation in the Cross and Crown and Lafayette's own loose disregard for his own statement, it took Alexander a moment to realize what the marquis had actually said. At last, it connected. He set down his glass, regarding his friend thoughtfully.

"'If not for this war and the next'?" he repeated.

The smile faded from Lafayette's face. He took a long drink, making no remark on the quality of the beer. At this stage in the conversation, it appeared any intoxicant would do.

"You know what I have to do after this war is won, Alexander. I am dedicated to your cause—"

"We know that. You've given none of us reason to doubt it."

"But I am a Frenchman before anything. There is another revolution waiting for me, when we have flown your flag above New York. How can I ask Peggy to leave her home and her family for that? For a revolution I may not even survive?"

"You will—"

"You cannot know that. And even if I am not killed, or wounded, or imprisoned, the fighting may last for years. It is impossible. Until the war is done, it is impossible."

Lafayette sighed and leaned back, tipping his chair on its rear two legs so he could rest the back of his head against the wall. Eyes closed, he seemed to be considering the mysteries of the universe.

"I believe I love her, Alexander. But it would be so much simpler if I did not."

Alexander stared. Small wonder he could never keep Lafayette's age straight in his mind. Writing a woman convoluted love poems like a heartsick teenager, and then in the next breath sacrificing everything for his friends and his country like a world-weary patriot of fifty. A fierceness of purpose he could respect, and almost understand.

The Frenchman sighed again, then drained the rest of his glass and set it back on the table with a tired air of finality.

"Please do not tell Peggy about this," he said at last. "She should hear this from me. She deserves the chance to find another."

Alexander began to say something, then fell silent. It was up to Peggy to decide whether she could afford to wait years for her idealistic immigrant lieutenant, or if there were more convenient husbands to be had on this side of the Atlantic. Much as he longed to interfere—and certainly, since his arrival in New York, he had not been known for keeping his opinions to himself—it was not his place, and in the end, not his decision.

"Peggy's a smart woman," he replied. "If you tell her what you've just told me, I'm sure she'll do the right thing."

Lafayette sighed and gestured to the innkeeper for another round. "With Peggy Schuyler, I confess I stopped knowing what the right thing was long ago."


	3. Winter of Discontent

Real quick: A billion thank-yous to everyone who's following and/or reviewed this story! The Hamilton fandom is a wild, weird, and wonderful place, and I love it all to pieces. Every single person who's told me "This pairing is kind of nonsense, but you're convincing me" is making my life worth living.

Anyway, moving on! Chapter three: In which we see what exactly America's favorite fighting Frenchman was up to during the events of "Stay Alive." (Loosely. As I mentioned, my timeline has gone to hell in a handbasket.) And in chapter four, we'll see what's been going on with Peggy on the home front...

* * *

 _27 January 1778  
_ _Continental Army Winter Encampment, Pennsylvania_

Every day, Lafayette thought it could grow no colder. Every day, Valley Forge proved him wrong.

The wind sailed through the gaps between the trees, whipping the weak tongues of the sporadic campfires higher, then lower again into faint sunset glows. Above their heads in the clearing, a crisp winter sky hung clear and sparkling with stars. For the first night in many nights, there was no snow. At least, no more than the six inches already blanketing the camp, soaking through Lafayette's boots, slowly stealing the life from him.

He wrapped his coat tightly around him, folding his arms over his chest, and a long sigh spilled in a translucent cloud from his lungs toward the stars. The warmth and revelry of Albany felt like a fever dream.

Laurens stretched his stiff fingers over the weakening fire and glanced at the marquis with a smile.

"Do they have winters like this in France, Lancelot?" he teased. How the good humor had not been frozen out of his bones was a mystery.

"No," Lafayette returned, his voice careless, though softer than was his habit. "In winters as in so many things, Americans are exceptional."

"After the war," Laurens went on, "I'll take you to Long Island on a Friday night, around sundown. Man like you, with your accent and that scar, you'll be warm enough. God, we'll have to beat the women away from you with a stick."

Lafayette's hand went unconsciously to the thin white ridge underscoring the length of his right cheekbone. It was new since Saratoga, and he had not yet learned to wear it naturally.

"If you leave any for me. I remember how thorough your courtship was at Princeton."

Laurens laughed and launched into a spirited defense of his pre-war after-hours exploits, but Lafayette was not listening. It was the sort of conversation that belonged at a Princeton tavern, or in some underground café in Saint-Denis, not here. But Laurens was not speaking for his benefit. John had not earned the rank of lieutenant colonel without understanding what it took to bring a full battalion of men through the winter. Their airy, pointless conversation was for the eight other men pressed close around the fire, silent shadows of men who, now, at least for a moment, had something to listen to other than the screaming of their stomachs and the brittle cracking of frostbitten flesh.

These men could see the blood Laurens had coughed onto the snow. Could see the dark, deep hollows cut into the face of the young marquis, turning his once-aristocratic profile into a gaunt mask. But they could see their commanders. Hear them. Knew that, superior officers or not, they were there, freezing, surviving, dreaming of tomorrow while staggering through tonight.

When the night deepened and the group dispersed, then, perhaps, Lafayette would allow the silently building tears to freeze as they fell, coating his fresh scar with a fine frost.

But not yet.

Tonight he would sit and trade stories with Laurens, recount the time he, fifteen and roaring drunk, had scaled to the top of the Hôtel de Ville and pissed off the edge directly onto the hat of the passing Lord Chief Justice, who knew only by the smell the nature of the assault. And he would listen to Laurens' similarly absurd youthful exploits on his father's South Carolina estate…

Or, at least, he meant to.

"Monsieur Lafayette?"

He turned at the worse-than-usual mispronunciation of his name. A young boy of twelve, shivering in a too-large coat, stood just outside the circle of firelight.

"Yes?" Lafayette asked, rising, though he already knew exactly what.

"The general has sent for you, sir. He wants to see you."

The Frenchman nodded, graced the boy with a smile.

" _Merci_ ," he replied—sometimes he wondered whether his fluent English left the Continental Army feeling shortchanged, as if they had not been granted the foreigner they'd been promised. "Here. Take my place. I know my own way to the General's cabin."

The boy did not thank him, merely dropped onto the stump Lafayette had been sitting on and leaned toward the fire as a moth drawn to the light. Shrugging his exposed hands up into the cuffs of his sleeves, Lafayette left the circle of light, weaving his way around soldiers and between poorly constructed huts toward the general's quarters. He noted, distantly, that he must have lost more weight than he had thought—his booted feet barely left footprints in the fine powder.

Washington's cabin stood boldly dead center of the camp, rich golden light spilling through its windows and beneath the door. It looked like Lafayette had imagined the gates of heaven to look. The general's personal guard hesitated a moment when he stepped before them, uncertain what to do. Likely unable to recognize him anymore. The winter had changed the entire army, and Lafayette was no exception.

"If I might, gentlemen" he said, enjoying their look of surprise that flickered quickly to understanding. It would take a good deal more than a year and a half of war to mask his accent, and with it his identity would forever be unmistakable. The guard stepped aside, and Lafayette pulled the door open and stepped into the room.

The heat was sudden, shockingly sudden. The well-constructed wooden walls shielded the general's quarters from the harsh bite of the wind, and twin fires crackled pleasantly in opposite grates. Lafayette winced and eased his hands out of his coatsleeves, massaging the sharp, stinging pain out of his fingers. For the first time in what felt like years, he could breathe normally.

"You called for me, sir?" he asked, directing the question to the tall, broad-shouldered man examining a large unfurled map of Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey spread across the table, his back to the young Frenchman.

At the sound of his invitee's voice, Washington turned away from the map. The smile melted from his face as quickly as the frost was from Lafayette's hair.

"Dear God, man," Washington said frankly, "are you ill?"

Lafayette gave a short laugh. "Find me a man in this camp who is not ill, and I have a château I can sell you," he said drily. "What can I do for you?"

But if Washington had once had a purpose behind summoning his immigrant lieutenant to his quarters, he had utterly forgotten it.

"Come, for God's sake, sit down," he said, and drew out a chair from the table. "Let me get you a drink. The wine is long gone, of course, but a mouthful of cognac, to warm you…"

"I am perfectly fine," Lafayette said impatiently, though he did sink rather heavily into Washington's proffered chair.

The general sat opposite him, looking on with the solicitous disapproval of a father whose son has found a new and surprising way of disappointing him. Seated, Washington's extra two inches of height were not as noticeable, but no angle could hide that he now outweighed the young marquis by some forty pounds. Lafayette felt more like a child before him than ever, dwarfed in body as well as presence.

"What foolishness have you done now? Your quarters…"

"Serve as hospital for the ill and dying," Lafayette said shortly. "Lieutenant Colonel Laurens and I bunk with the men."

"But—"

"There are more important things for this army than whether or not I sleep warm at night, general."

The faint, icy pressure he laid on the word "general," from a young man on first-name terms with the commander of the Continental Army, bore a jarring air of finality. Washington had a quiverfull of protests still ready for the making, but Lafayette was entirely through listening.

"You asked me here for a reason, yes?"

Washington was silent a moment, composing his thoughts. Some sort of paternal instinct was at play here, urging him to say something more severe, but as general he had learned to spot a losing battle when he saw one.

"Yes. You know I trust your tactical insight more than almost anyone else in this camp."

Lafayette smiled, the shadow of a wry grin, but a recognizable shadow nonetheless. " _Almost_ anyone? Please, introduce me to your most brilliant military tactician. I cannot have had the pleasure of meeting him."

Washington raised an eyebrow. "I will present you to General Von Steuben in the morning."

Lafayette gave a silent look of wry incredulity— _that blowhard German drill sergeant? Please, do not insult me_ —but allowed the commander to continue.

"Now. I have a half-formed plan, regarding the royal encampment at Yorktown. It will be a risk, of course, but if we could move before February and have the element of…"

But Lafayette was already shaking his head without so much looking at the map.

Washington frowned, clearly annoyed. "If you are going to dismiss me, at least explain yourself."

"If it were midsummer, yes, without question," Lafayette said curtly. "Have Lee bring a battalion upriver in a feint, wait in the bay, then surround the encampment with foot soldiers and cavalry under cover of darkness. Strike them where they are blind. It is a good plan."

"And our job is to execute plans when they are good."

Lafayette's brow darkened. "That is not your only job. If you attempt a battle before the snow melts, you will have another revolution on your hands."

"Surely the men could bear—"

Lafayette slammed an open palm on the desk with a ringing crack. Washington drew back, surprised, at the flaming anger in the major's eyes.

"Your soldiers are _dying_ ," Lafayette snarled. He leaned forward over the table, narrowing the distance between himself and the commander. "They are freezing to death, they are starving to death. Every day you lose more."

Washington's gaze grew steely. "I am still your commander, Major."

"And I am your officer, general. It is my job to tell you the truth."

The silence hung cold between them for a moment, the Frenchman's fevered eyes locked on the general's. After a few moments he spoke again, softer this time, but no less earnest.

"I am as much invested in this war as you are. The future of my country and yours depends on the example we set here. So do not think I do not take what I say seriously."

"I know. What would you have me do?"

"Go to your men," Lafayette said immediately. "They need to see you. Speak with you. Know you are working with them, every moment."

"Which is what you and Laurens are doing."

Lafayette nodded. He rose unsteadily from the chair, testing how well his legs would support his weight. The experiment did not have the most reassuring of results. Washington half-rose, intending to offer Lafayette his arm in assistance, but quickly thought better of it.

"Is that all?" the marquis asked.

A pause, in which Washington kept his eyes turned on the map, either unwilling or unable to look at his foreign officer.

"Have you heard from your countrymen on the subject of reinforcements?"

The coldness of Lafayette's glare kept Washington's eyes pressed low.

"If a message from France arrives, general, I rather think it will come to you."

Washington's face remained impassive. "In that case, yes. That will be all."

Lafayette gave a half bow, before ducking back through the door and into the darkness of the frigid night.

Washington's boy did not relinquish the seat by the fire when Lafayette returned, but then, he had not really expected him to. He turned away from the firelight before he drew too near, letting his legs carry him toward the outskirts of camp. Drawn, pale faces loomed out of the darkness on either side, cast in orange by the flames. His mind was filled with images of demons, lurking in the shadows of the Pennsylvania woods, but he forced them roughly away.

 _Do not think of hell. Do not think of death._

 _Do not think of her._

He would never admit to these feelings, not in front of these men he loved as brothers, who had welcomed him with more warmth than the negligible tactical advantage he brought truly warranted. But there, alone in the cold, he felt a sharp pain between his ribs, one he knew the cause of, and did not want to know.

He had taken the week's leave for Alexander's wedding in the hopes that a brief flash of joy would make the bitter cold easier to take. It might have been less painful to spend the whole winter starving at Valley Forge.

It was not dignified. It was not honorable. It was not even _rational_. He had known her only a week, slightly less. How did it feel like he had known her all his life? And there was still so much more he could have learned, so much they had still to talk about. He wanted to know everything about her, every dream, every wish, every memory. He wanted to absorb her and be absorbed by her, until the scattered, shivering regiments of the Continental Army could not tell where the European major ended and fiery young Peggy Schuyler began.

"Major General."

He turned. It was more startling than it should have been, the idea that he was not in Albany, but still at camp, surrounded by other men who could speak to him.

From beside a nearby watchfire rose a slim, black-eyed man with the star of a brigadier general across the shoulders of his greatcoat. The man murmured something to his companion before crossing the few steps separating them. Lafayette nodded in greeting.

"Colonel Burr," he said. "I see you've been promoted."

Aaron Burr glanced down at his uniform with a rueful laugh. "No, I found a better coat. I'm hardly going to freeze to death on account of rank."

"Keep an eye open," Lafayette replied wryly. "I doubt General Conway will appreciate the pragmatism."

"I wish they would court-martial me for it," Burr replied, eyes twinkling like snowflakes with gallows humor. "At least if they had me hanged, I'd be warmer in hell."

Valley Forge was still half a step up from the inferno, but Lafayette could see his point. He said nothing—men were lonelier in winter, and by necessity friendlier, but Aaron Burr was not the kind of man to solicit meaningless conversation. He wanted something. He always did.

"Can I be frank with you, Major General?"

Lafayette shifted his weight to the opposite leg, a small sigh escaping from him like smoke from a pipe. "Burr, I have known you since Princeton. I have a name. You can use it."

Burr smirked—probably he thought it was a smile, but he had never been particularly good at controlling what his face was doing. "Lafayette, then. Another shot in the back of military discipline."

He rolled his eyes skyward but remained silent. They had walked a few steps away from the fire now. Less hospitable to be sure, but also less of a chance of being overheard. Burr shrugged his coat closer and glanced over his shoulder warily. Soldiers scattered the camp on all sides, but no one paid the two officers any attention.

"I have a proposition for you, if you're interested in hearing it."

Lafayette raised an eyebrow. "I'm intrigued."

Burr's faint smirk had turned conspiratorial. "I have an engagement tomorrow evening at a country house not far from here. A social gathering of sorts, among friends. I was wondering if you would care to join me."

Perhaps the part of Lafayette's brain responsible for the basic comprehension of words had frozen into uselessness.

"An engagement? Where in God's name are you leaving your calling card at a time like this?"

"The house of a local officer and his wife."

Understanding dawned quickly. He would have laughed, if Burr's delicate pride had not been at stake.

"Ah. If you are offering me the chance to meet your radiant Theodosia…"

Burr flinched in surprise. "Who told you about—"

"Burr, you are as irrepressible as the devil, but not nearly so subtle," Lafayette said with a grin. "Are you inviting me so that I can make your excuses to the commander?"

Plainly, from the sheepish expression on Burr's face, this had been exactly it.

"General Washington trusts you with his life," the dark-eyed colonel said, his politician's voice persuasive even when he was caught on the defensive. "If you and I were to disappear together for a few hours, surely no one would dare—"

Lafayette held up a hand, silencing him. It was odd, seeing Aaron Burr reckless enough to risk asking favors of one of Washington's top officers. Lafayette had thought Burr's rumored scandalous courtship with the wife of a Regimental officer had been fabricated to pass the time, or executed to win some tactical advantage, or to cashier a rich soon-to-be widow and all her accompanying capital. A single look into Burr's eyes as he attempted to talk his way into an evening of the lady's company, and it was clear the truth was something else entirely.

"I will make your excuses to the general," Lafayette said easily. "Any excuse you think will serve. But I must decline the invitation."

Burr's usually inscrutable face passed from rapture to confusion in a split second, followed hard upon by a knowing smirk. "You're waiting for someone else," he said, daring a contradiction. "Someone in France?"

So close to being perceptive, Colonel Burr. And yet so tragically far from the mark.

"You'll forgive me, but I would rather keep that information private."

The brief thaw in their relations had iced over once again. Lafayette had reconstructed the walls separating them, and Burr was quickly remembering that he had no reason to push his luck, not after he had already gotten exactly what he wanted.

"I am in your debt, Major General."

The Frenchman merely shrugged. "Think nothing of it."

"No," Burr pressed on. "I will think something of it. If there's one thing I can't abide, it's an unpaid debt. If there's anything you need of me, within the bounds of reason, ask."

It was a frankly astonishing thing to hear from someone who usually played his cards as close to the chest as Burr did. For a moment, Lafayette did not know what to say. He pressed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, hunching his shoulders slightly.

"I will remember that. Now. I have a letter to see to, before I lose too much moonlight."

Burr nodded and stepped aside, allowing Lafayette to weave his way through the outskirts of the camp to the wide, drafty hut that served as general barracks for thirty men. Doubtless Burr would spend the rest of the night anticipating his meeting the next day with the woman occupying every spare inch of his brain. He was welcome to the pastime, Lafayette thought bitterly. A satisfying one, for those lucky enough to have it.

The barracks were nearly empty at this hour—not long past ten. He could hear the wind whistling through the poorly insulated walls, but the three soldiers nestled in moth-eaten blankets on rough wooden bunks had somehow found the wherewithal to sleep. The moon through the doorway lent just enough light to see by. Enough to write, if he had been able to force his hands to do it. But he did not reach into his pack beside his bunk, did not retrieve the pen and paper he had stowed there.

He had no idea what he would say, if he were to write to her.

What did Peggy Schuyler care about the daily comings and goings of Army life? What reason did she have to care about him at all? Would she love him still, if she saw what he had become? A ragged ghost of a man, directionless as a snowflake, insubstantial as the wind.

He had promised to write to her, had kissed her goodbye and sworn he would write weekly. And he might have bared his whole soul to the page, were it not for the fierce and utterly intolerable prospect of being laughed at.

He slithered his way beneath the blanket, not removing either his coat or boots. The bed seemed even colder than the air outside, but the longer his breath thawed the slight frost on the pillow, the more of his energy seemed to seep into the blanket, until at last he was able to drift into a light, restless sleep.

He rarely slept well enough these days to dream. But when he did, it was nearly always of her.


	4. Seven French Ships

_28 January 1778_

 _Albany, New York_

Outside the picture window, behind the thick pale green curtains, snow continued to fall. The fire in the dining-room grate had been spitting disconsolately for several long minutes, on the brink of extinguishing itself, but Peggy paid it no attention. There was enough heat left in the house to get by. And in any case, she had not set up shop in the dining room after dark because it was comfortable.

Her project had outgrown the surface of her father's desk in his study. The work now sprawled across the long chestnut dining table. In happier times, it might have hosted a dinner party for sixteen; tonight, she had the room to herself. Before her lay an unfurled map of shipping routes between New York, Virginia, London, Madrid, and the West Indies, trade paths and hazardous waters annotated in Philip Schuyler's oppressively neat hand. She had added markings of her own—harsh black crosses along the length of the coastline, marking the location of the British blockade. A pile of some twenty pages sat beside the map, notarized letters adorned with signets and seals, and a brown leather ledger-book with two columns of precisely printed figures.

Frowning, Peggy dipped her pen into the inkwell, then added a few more entries into the left-hand column, keeping a running tally in her head as she worked. The only sounds piercing the silent room were the scratching of the pen, the dull sputtering of the fire…

And after a moment, the creak of the door opening, and the swish of skirts against the floor.

Peggy did not look up. She kept her eyes on the numbers, rapidly adding and subtracting in her head. It took nearly a full minute until she scratched a neat total at the bottom of the page and glanced up. Angelica sat across the table from her, head cocked to the side, watching with faint amusement.

She set the pen aside. Peggy loved her eldest sister, of course, but there was always something disconcerting about being watched by her. The sense of never quite measuring up, even though the stakes and the benchmarks had never been accurately laid out.

"You look just like Father when you do that," Angelica remarked. "Whenever I interrupted him, he'd always finish his row of sums before he looked at me."

"It's not easy keeping that many numbers in your head at once."

"I know," Angelica said with a grin. "That's why you're the one doing it." She looked at the dying fire with a faint air of disapproval and rose to stoke it herself, gently prodding the logs with the heavy iron poker. "How have we come out this week?"

Peggy shrugged. An unladylike habit, their father had always said. But then, so was accounting.

"Not ideal."

"What does 'not ideal' mean, exactly?"

It meant that Peggy would rather have avoided the subject completely if possible, but it seemed that wasn't the way the conversation would go.

"The blockade across the harbor is holding strong. Which means none of Father's ships can get in or out with cargo. Which means we're coming out at a loss."

Angelica straightened up to eye her sister warily. "How much of a loss?"

Peggy's grim expression was more than enough to answer the question. "There are things we could try to get around the redcoats," she said, turning her attention back to the map.

But the words lacked conviction and purpose. Of course there were things they might try. She might take a trip to Long Island to hire a privateer to shoot the gap in the blockade. She might try to fly over the masts of the Royal Navy using wings made of wax, for all the good it would do them.

Peggy pushed her chair roughly back from the table and put both hands to her head, turning her exhausted gaze toward the ceiling. She'd always been good with business, had helped their father manage his accounts when he fell ill or was too busy to bother. But there was still a limit to what she could do. She could not make something out of nothing. No one could.

Angelica sat again beside her sister and laid a hand on her shoulder—to Peggy's manifest surprise. Intimacy had never been something she looked for from her oldest sister. Not that Angelica was incapable of it, far from it; Peggy was simply not its usual target. Maybe the war had changed both of them. More than either was willing to admit.

"It'll come out all right in the end," Angelica said, not specifying exactly what would or how. "I've been speaking with Mr. Hale, Father's supplier. He's agreed to waive our interest payments until after the war."

"That's something."

It was. Barely.

Angelica gave her sister's shoulder a slight squeeze, before standing up with a sigh. "I'm going to check in on Eliza," she said.

Peggy winced. She should have been the one to suggest it. Eliza's spirits grew more depressed every day the winter went on. A reaction Peggy could understand, whether or not her sisters knew it.

"I have a few more things to finish tonight," she said, studiously avoiding Angelica's eye in favor of the neat columns of numbers.

Angelica frowned, as if trying to read whatever silent thoughts were not being shared with her. The pause lasted only a moment, before it was broken by a smile so transparent Peggy could have read the daily newspaper through it.

"Don't work too much later. You and I have a meeting with Mr. Sheridan from the dockyard in the morning."

Peggy swore loudly, which seemed to amuse Angelica.

"Ah, no. That's not tomorrow, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is. You look thrilled."

"I hate that man, Angelica. I _hate_ him."

Angelica laughed. "Why? Because he smells like a barrel of salt cod?"

"No." Peggy grimaced. "He made a pass at me the last time he was here. Tried to stick his hand—"

"He _didn't._ "

"He did. I'd have dunked his head in the rain barrel if Father hadn't warned me to be polite."

Angelica grinned, halfway to the door. "Well, for better or worse, Father isn't here. And if Sheridan tries anything tomorrow, I'll drop the old codfish in the harbor myself like a crate of tea, see if I won't."

Peggy was surprised into laughter—was it legal to laugh during wartime? Somehow it felt like she was getting away with something.

"Go easy tonight," Angelica said, her eyes alive with a smile.

And then she left, leaving Peggy alone again with her numbers and her maps.

But looking at the map another minute seemed an impossible task. The British blockade hadn't been constructed at random. It had been methodically built, each vessel placed carefully to throttle the coast, and it was doing exactly that. A terrible time for the family business to be quartermastering. An even worse time for the man you cared for to be an officer in the rebel army.

Peggy rose from the table, pulling aside the curtain to look out at the snowy street beyond. It was quiet, deserted streetcorners accented by swirling gusts of wind made visible by sparkling flakes. She wasn't sure what she expected to see—it was January, the mercury dropping farther past freezing every minute, and after ten o'clock in the evening besides. Hardly the best circumstances for the street to be full of people going about their business. And yet she almost thought that if she looked long enough, he might appear, a darkened figure materializing out of the storm, snow-white smile luminous against the night…

 _No. Don't be ridiculous._

She let the curtain fall back reproachfully against the window. She was being silly. Lafayette was in Pennsylvania. There was work still to be done.

The ledger waited still for her, but she hadn't taken more than two steps toward it before she turned to the door—startled by the sound of someone opening it and entering without knocking.

Her heart in her throat, she took in the sight of the stocky, unfamiliar man in the patched overcoat now standing in the dining room, and came to three realizations at once.

First, vagabonds in the street had found out that Philip Schuyler's house was no longer occupied by Philip Schuyler.

Second, the only thing standing between Peggy and certain robbery, probable murder, was Peggy herself.

And third…

Third was an action before it was a thought.

Peggy lunged to the fireplace, seizing the still-hot poker and holding it trained at the intruder's heart like a saber. She did not know what she was doing, had never so much as considered turning a sword on another person, but her grip was strong.

"Come one step closer and I swear I'll run you through." Her voice was as steady as her arm.

The man raised both hands in alarm.

"That's the thanks I get for coming to see you? Alexander didn't mention all Schuylers were madwomen."

The poker in Peggy's hand dropped a few inches. "Alexander?"

"Hamilton. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Peggy set the fire poker somewhat sheepishly back beside the hearth. Just as well she hadn't needed to stab the man through the heart. The poker was hardly sharp enough.

"Do I know you, sir?" she asked.

The man looked at her with the indignant expression of someone who took great pride in needing no introduction.

"Hercules Mulligan," he said. "A friend of your husband's."

Peggy flinched, feeling all the color rise to her face. Was he mocking her? _A friend of your husband's._ If he knew Alexander, he must have known Lafayette. Would have known what the Frenchman had told her before he returned to camp. Would have known…

 _Do not think about that now._

"What husband?" she asked curtly.

Mulligan frowned. "You're Eliza Hamilton?"

The angry tension drained from Peggy immediately. She'd thought the days of being called by her sisters' names would have to end at some point. Maybe not.

"Her sister. Peggy."

Mulligan dropped into an apologetic, slightly sarcastic bow. "Forgive me. Alexander didn't mention there were two Schuyler sisters who were incredibly beautiful."

Peggy rolled her eyes—she didn't believe that for a second. Alexander would have said exactly that. The only difference was, he would not have meant Peggy.

She sat again at the table, doing her best to impersonate the perceptive glint of the eye that had always graced her father's business dealings. Mulligan remained standing, though there was a chair he might have taken. Perhaps her subtle efforts to intimidate him were working after all.

"My sister is indisposed, Mr. Mulligan. If you have a message for her, I can see it's delivered."

Mulligan paused a moment, before reaching into his pocket and producing a sealed letter. It could only have come from Alexander. There had to be at least six pieces of paper crammed into the envelope, positively bursting at the seams.

 _Lafayette's never written to you that way. He's never written to you at all._

 _Didn't you hear me, brain? I said not now._

Peggy took Mulligan's letter with a small nod of thanks. There would be time enough for self-pity. But that time would be after the war was done.

Message delivered, Mulligan's eyes passed over the map of the coastline still spread uselessly across the tabletop.

"What's this?" he asked, squinting slightly.

"The British blockade. I'm managing my father's shipping company while he's away."

"Is that right?"

Peggy had hoped Mulligan would leave as soon as he'd delivered his message, but he sat down opposite her, leaning closer to the map. He frowned, considering the tiny crosses marking the location of ships.

"And if I could confirm this layout, Miss Schuyler, would that interest you?"

He certainly had Peggy's full attention now. She gave up the power play of disinterest and turned to fully face him.

"It would interest me more if you could disprove it. We need to pass this blockade. The army needs supplies, and our ships can't…"

"It's not your ships I'm so worried about. They might even let yours in, if only so they can focus on the French ones just outside the harbor."

Now that was news.

"French ships?"

"Seven of them, armed to the teeth, and at Washington's disposal if he can just get at them."

"How do you…"

"I have my sources," Mulligan said, grinning. He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

If his information had been less important, Peggy would have rolled her eyes at the melodramatic secrecy of it all. He might as well admit he was part of the Sons of Liberty, with all his suggestive winking and nose-tapping.

"Do you have a contact with the French navy?" she asked.

Mad hope flickered up briefly, but she shoved it away again. Lafayette was camped with the main branch of the Continental Army. He could not possibly also be involved with these French ships. He would be no more able to reach them than Washington was.

Mulligan nodded. "One of their captains managed to make his way ashore. Lodges in a boarding-house not far from the harbor. Why?"

The question came out slightly sharper than it might have done, but Peggy was not at all interested in his surprise. She had quickly risen and snatched up her coat, and was already doing up the buttons. She looked at Mulligan with scathing impatience, as if she could hardly believe he had not immediately leapt into action.

"I need you to take me to him," she said matter-of-factly, ignoring the stunned expression on his face. "I've had an idea of how the French can break the blockade. I rather think he'll want to hear the details."

#

The grandfather clock in the front hall had just struck one in the morning when Angelica heard a noise at the door. Hesitantly, she swung her feet out of bed, fumbling in the darkened bedroom for the gray dressing-gown she had draped over the chair. Lighting a candle in an iron holder beside her bed, she crept silently toward and down the stairs. It didn't occur to her to be afraid—perhaps if she had been more awake, it might have. For the moment, a feeling of brazen curiosity seemed to make sense.

Perhaps a sisterly sixth sense had tipped her off.

When she reached the front hall, holding her candle high to grow the small circle of light, she could see that the late-night arrival was not a burglar or a rogue, but Peggy, slipping off her shoes, an irrepressible smile on her face. She looked very tired, smelled slightly of tobacco smoke and cheap beer, and a thin layer of snow and frost had collected on the shoulders of her coat. But when she looked up and saw Angelica standing at the foot of the stairs, her smile broadened.

"Good morning," she said, keeping her voice quiet. "It is morning now, isn't it?"

"Barely," Angelica agreed. "Where have you been?"

"At a tavern downtown," Peggy answered, and laughed at the undisguised alarm that flashed across her sister's face.

"With who, in God's name?"

"One of Alexander's friends, Hercules Mulligan. And"—it seemed to be all Peggy could do not to laugh out loud again, though to her credit she was doing everything in her power to keep a straight face—"Monsieur le Comte de Rochambeau, captain of the French navy."

Now Angelica abandoned all pretense of normalcy.

"Have you lost your damned mind?" she demanded, not angry so much as genuinely curious.

"Not in the slightest," Peggy said promptly, the glint in her eye reflecting the afterglow of adventure. "But the British will, when they find out seven French ships will slip through their lines by this time tomorrow."

To that, Angelica found she had nothing to say.


	5. Guest at Midnight

**Note:** Well, three notes, actually.

1) Readers, you are my favorite. All of you. Just my favorite. Y'all are the best, and I love you—platonically, consensually, and wholeheartedly.

2) I apologize for my inability to keep getting chapters up regularly. If I could quit my job and stay home all day writing this story, you bet your bottom dollar I'd do it. *sighs wistfully*

3) Because a few reviewers clearly know a _lot more_ about Lafayette as a historical figure than I do: Yes, this story is hella AU. Other than listening to _Hamilton_ about twenty times a week, I've put a grand total of fifteen minutes of research into this project. I'm taking facts I like, ignoring facts I don't, and straight-up inventing things based on what makes me happy. Do not use this as a primary source for your American history research paper, is what I'm saying.

OK, that's it! Let's go.

* * *

 _2 February 1778_

 _Valley Forge, Pennsylvania_

The cold ripped a gasp from his newly awake lungs, like a hooked fish hitting the deck. He sat sharply upright—only long training in the art of soldiering kept him from crying out. Washington's boy pulled his freezing hand back sheepishly from Lafayette's shoulder, embarrassed to have caused him so much alarm. The Frenchman sighed, feeling the slowness of his breathing begin to calm his racing heart.

He did not remember what he'd been dreaming of. But he knew that whatever it was, continuing it would have been better than waking.

"Forgive me, sir," the boy said, earnestly enough that Lafayette could not help but do so. "I told the General you were asleep—"

"As any sane man would be," Lafayette murmured, eyeing the canopy of stars visible through the small unfilled chinks in the cabin's walls. "But the General has never slept longer than thirty minutes in his life. It was good of you to remind him."

He arched his back, hearing the pop of a displaced vertebrae settle back into place, and winced. Making as little noise as possible, he swung his legs over and clambered out of the bottom bunk. The boy had kept his voice low as well, but neither of them much needed to bother. The rest of the men in the barracks had slept through worse. None of them stirred.

"He says you should come quickly," the boy went on, driving as hard a pace as his short legs could manage. His voice regained its normal volume as they ducked through the door into the camp.

They made an odd pair, thought Lafayette: a tall, thin major general and a twelve-year-old boy, not yet five feet tall and swimming in an oversized greatcoat. Perhaps between the two of them, they might have made up an ordinary-sized person.

"Did he say why, the General?"

The boy blew on his hands to warm them. "I think he said you were needed to translate."

Lafayette skidded to a halt. Beneath the snow, the ground was icy—he very nearly fell.

"Translate?" he repeated.

Unaware of the mental earthquake his words had just caused, the boy shrugged. "There's a visitor in the General's tent. Well-dressed fellow, with a mustache and a horrible accent. Neither he nor the General can understand a damn word the other one is saying."

It could not be possible. Surely the boy was lying. Some sort of elaborate ruse, to put Lafayette in his place after having spoken out of turn earlier that week. He refused to entertain the notion of hope. Even as hope asserted itself regardless, in spite of itself, a warm flame that would not be dampened. He very nearly ran the rest of the way to Washington's quarters, leaving the boy behind. It did not occur to him until after he arrived to worry about the less-than-impressive figure he cut, out of breath and shivering, wearing the reanimated corpse of a respectable uniform. But there was nothing to be done.

He knocked three times, then, breathless, entered the room's blazing warmth, brightly lit against the midnight.

Washington looked up as he entered with a weary sort of relief and a half smile. Lafayette, however, had eyes only for the second man, the one who rose from Washington's desk in either deference or curiosity at the marquis' entrance. A small man, shorter than Lafayette by some six inches, he had a sturdiness and a fierceness to him that more than made up the difference, as did his prodigious black mustache. He nodded in Lafayette's direction, but did not speak.

The general sidled up to his youngest major general. "Thank the Lord you're here," he murmured surreptitiously in Lafayette's ear. "My French is atrocious. Please, make your business known to Captain Rochambeau."

Lafayette blinked. He was not certain he could achieve words in any language. Monsieur le Comte de Rochambeau. Captain of the French Navy. Which meant, which had to mean…

"Captain," he said in tentative French, his mouth growing used to the once-familiar sounds, now rusty from disuse. "My compliments from General Washington. I am Major General Lafayette. The commander has summoned me to translate between the two of you."

From the first syllable of native French, Rochambeau laughed loudly and extended a hand for Lafayette to shake. His grip was so forceful Lafayette had to make a conscious effort not to wince.

"You're the madcap marquis who enlisted with the Continental rebels? Praise be to God, but I am glad to see you. Your general's French is atrocious."

Lafayette politely elected not to translate.

"You received our call for assistance, then, Captain," Washington asked, through Lafayette.

Rochambeau nodded and took his seat again at the chair in front of the desk. Lafayette stood beside Washington, who remained seated across the wooden desk from the foreign officer.

"Some time ago," Rochambeau agreed. "You are aware that Major General Lafayette's and my countrymen are not well-known for their love of the British. We are by our very nature predisposed to take your side."

"We are enormously glad to hear it."

"But the act of equipping you with munitions and supplies has not been an easy one. The British blockade proved more difficult to traverse than we had anticipated."

There was a slight hitch in Lafayette's voice as he relayed this response. He focused hard on the sensation of his feet against the ground to steady himself.

Washington, too, had caught the meaning of the verb tense.

"So it has been traversed," the general said carefully.

Rochambeau gave a conspiratorial smile. "Would I be here before you both if it had not?"

Washington, usually stoic as Seneca, swore loudly. It required no translation—Lafayette had just done the same.

Enjoying the effect of his revelation on his audience, Rochambeau went on. "Three nights ago, with some assistance, we managed to slip what currently exists of our fleet past the blockade and into the harbor. Seven ships, all fully loaded with guns, powder, and provisions."

 _Seven ships._

Lafayette felt the corners of the room blur. Washington shot out a hand to steady him. It had been too much on too little sleep. He was desperately close to fainting. He sat on the edge of the desk, trying and failing to make the movement project a studied sort of nonchalance rather than aggressive vertigo.

Seven ships was a diamond mine of riches. Seven ships meant food, meant guns, meant powder, meant naval strength to unnerve the British, if not overpower them.

Meant, in short, hope.

"You are most welcome here, Captain," Lafayette translated from Washington. His voice, to his enormous relief, did not betray the tears that hovered unsettlingly close in the wings. Strong emotion, in his current state, was forever almost present, and never to be trusted. "You bring the best news we have heard in months."

"The only good news, I am told," the captain responded, though not unkindly. "I only wish we could have brought all our ships at once."

 _There were more?_

Rochambeau did not require further prompting to speak. "Five were delayed by a small skirmish not far off our own coast. But thanks to your enchanting blockade runner in Albany, I daresay the rest will be here before the week is out."

Lafayette froze. Washington looked at him expectantly, awaiting the rest of the sentence. But for a long moment, the young Frenchman could not form sound.

 _You have a French fleet at your disposal, and a better chance of living to see thirty than you've had in months. Is that not enough? Do you need to invent more hopes just to dash them?_

Surely he had misheard. Overwork and overworry and the lingering memory of an Albany ballroom some weeks before must have made him vulnerable to suggestion. Nothing more or less than that. Composing himself as best he could, he relayed the message in English that dripped faux-disinterest.

But Washington, now informed, did not give him the option of letting his fantasies persist unchallenged.

"Who do you mean, Captain? I have no soldiers left in Albany."

Rochambeau did not smile, but his perceptive black eyes were sparkling with the light of an untold secret. He leaned backward in his chair, relishing the anticipation of the reveal.

"No, General, I don't suppose you do. The daughter of the city's one-time quartermaster came to me through one of your spies, proposing a most clever misdirection."

"A misdirection?"

"False colors on trading ships, to attract General Howe's attention. We slipped past while their focus was elsewhere. I would never have proposed it myself, and would have had no way of enacting it even if I had. But Miss Margaret Schuyler was so well informed and methodical that I confess there remained very little for me to do."

Washington looked at Lafayette in some surprise. The major could hardly blame him for it. The small, barely stifled yelp of shock that had slipped between his lips was enough to catch anyone's notice.

"This means something to you?" he asked Lafayette.

But the major did not respond—Rochambeau was still speaking. His young countryman's reaction had not surprised him in the slightest. In fact, he seemed positively delighted by it.

"She sends you her compliments most particularly, Monsieur Lafayette. And expresses the hope that, now you are well provisioned and more secure in your cause, you will find the fortitude to lift a pen and write her every so often."

Heat rushed to Lafayette's face so rapidly he thought it must be melting the snow from the cabin roof.

And Washington waited patiently for a translation.

Why could he not be as good a liar as Colonel Burr, who could say anything to anyone with perfect equanimity? The smallest modicum of privacy, that was all he asked, and his damned inability to come up with convincing lies on the spot would deprive him even of that. He mumbled the words under his breath, feeling his color rise to the tips of his ears.

Washington chuckled indulgently. He looked half a second from ruffling his major general's hair like a wayward eight-year-old, but refrained in front of the foreign officer.

"Well," he said instead, grinning like a schoolboy, "at least that settles any question of the young lady's affections, does it not, Major General?"

It did.

Decidedly.

Lafayette wasn't sure anymore if he had fallen in love with a human or with the goddess Athena, showing her favor through feats of military strength and _deus ex machina._ There must have been some mistake, when the gods dealt out the directions of their respective lives—of the two of them, Peggy ought to have been the military officer.

When they had parted, those weeks before in a snow-covered street in Albany, he had held her small hands in his, unsure whether hers were trembling or his were. He had kissed away the tears that fell on her cheeks until she buried her face in his shoulder, gifting him with a few short seconds to weep himself, to feel the ache of leaving her, to feel it wholly, illogically, entirely. In that moment, he had thought he could not love her more. Since that moment, he had not allowed himself to think of her, fearing the total loss of control that came every time her name drifted into his mind.

However much he had loved her then, it seemed inconsequential, adolescent, compared to how desperately and powerfully he loved her now.

"I will deliver the news to the officers and the men when they report in the morning. Any way we can show the sincerity of our welcome, Monsieur, say the word and it shall be done."

Lafayette flinched—he had entirely forgotten Washington was still there. He forced himself out of the memory, banishing the specter of Albany's rooftops glittering with icicles, and the delicate snowflakes catching in Peggy's hair. Lafayette cleared his throat self-consciously, hastily relaying the message to Rochambeau. The knowing look the French captain gave him irritated Lafayette, though he lacked the authority to say anything.

"Excellent," Rochambeau replied. "Now, forgive me, gentlemen. I've called you from your beds at a dreadful hour. And, unless I much miss my guess, your rakish major general has a letter to write."

 _God in heaven._

If there was anything more humiliating than having to translate suggestive comments about your personal life to your superior officer, Lafayette had not yet encountered it. He prayed he never would.

Washington nodded. "Dismissed, Major General," he said. It was a close impersonation of military discipline, if that same schoolboy grin had not been shimmering just behind his eyes.

Lafayette snapped a sharp salute, bowed to Rochambeau, and swiftly took his leave.

The cold air, for a change, felt heavenly against his still-burning face. He walked quickly, unsure of where exactly he was going. The entire world felt upended. Hope, where moments before none had existed. The promise of a square meal within hours. The fantasy of a battle fought on equal footing against the enemy, suddenly possible, suddenly thrilling.

The idea that Peggy Schuyler had not abandoned him, that she thought of him still.

That she cared enough to risk everything.

Still sleeping, the men snoring in the barracks did not so much as turn over when Lafayette ducked back into the cabin. Walking soundlessly over the rough-hewn floorboards, he ducked into the leather pack tossed carelessly at the foot of his bunk, emerging moments later with a creased piece of paper, a pen—slightly cracked by now, but he had written with worse—and a half-empty inkwell. Drifting like a figure in a dream, he closed the door carefully behind as he left. The stars twinkling above, distant, reassuring, reminded him oddly of the smile on Washington's face, indulgent and celestial.

A small watchfire still smoldered in its shallow pit between two of the cabins. Lafayette nudged at the weak flames with a sturdy stick until it flared back into life, shedding just enough light to see by. Perched on a rock that kept him mostly dry from the snow, he rested his right ankle over his left knee, balancing the page on his thigh for lack of a table. His handwriting suffered for it, and the second-rate pen did not help. But somehow, even after having gone weeks without putting ink to page, he knew waiting another moment would drive him mad.

#

 _My dearest Peggy,_

 _What have you done? No, that is the wrong question. I know what you've done, and thanks to Captain Rochambeau, I even know how. But what I cannot fathom is why. Why would you take such a dangerous risk, for someone as inconsequential as me?_

 _I am afraid to believe you love me, Peggy. I've done nothing to deserve such happiness. You may or may not believe me, but the reason I haven't written to you these many weeks is nothing more or less than the fear you would burn my letters as you received them. Fear that you considered me one in an endless line of suitors, for you to choose from or reject as you liked._

 _I see my stupidity now. You meant what you said, as I did._

 _So many days, so many nights, so many letters wasted. I could have known your every thought. I could have heard your voice through the page a hundred times a day—for I know myself, and I would read and reread any words of yours I had until my eyes had burned a hole through the page, and even then I would recite them by memory until I fell asleep._

 _I am a fool, Peggy. I am as unwilling to believe ill of others as I am to believe well of myself. I am good for little beyond war, strategy, and the minutiae of decorum that come when one is born with a title one neither understands nor deserves. Winter leaves men more time than is desirable to turn their eyes inward, and I confess, as I examine myself, I see precious little there to love._

 _Still, I am persuaded—you have persuaded me—that you love me._

 _Not as much as I love you, of course. If you knew what I hold in my private heart, you would know such a thing is impossible. But enough for me to entertain hope._

 _You have saved us all, Peggy, but none so thoroughly as myself._

 _If I have overstepped any boundary, tell me. I will be the most careful, the most unassuming of companions, if that is what you want. But I will not recant a word of what I have written. You are a marvel, Peggy Schuyler. Be safe, and be well, and write to me, if you will forgive an anxious, cowardly soldier his foolishness._

 _Always yours,_

 _Lafayette_


	6. We Move Undercover

Since it's taken basically forever for me to get my life together sufficiently to update, this note is basically just here for me to apologize and quickly get out of your way.

And also to acknowledge that yes, Albany's like a hundred miles inland. So if we could all just pretend I didn't casually redraw the map of the United States in this chapter because I couldn't be bothered to figure out a better solution, that would be _great._

* * *

 _25 September 1781_

When Eliza entered, Peggy did not look up from the papers spread in front of her on the desk.

"I'm working. Can it wait?"

Eliza gave an exaggerated sigh, leaned over the desk, and seized the topmost sheet from Peggy's grasping hands. The youngest Schuyler sister let out a wail of horror and lunged after the page, but Eliza was too quick. She danced half a step away, turning to block Peggy's second lunge with her shoulder, and began to read aloud, her voice sparkling with barely restrained laughter.

"Even the victories we've won, at Monmouth and at Brandywine, they mean little to me until I imagine you in Albany, hearing the news of our conquest, and, I hope, thinking sometimes of a foolish soldier who—"

Eliza was unceremoniously cut off mid-sentence as Peggy leaned halfway over the desk and snatched the letter back. She folded it in half with an air of finality, face burning. Eliza grinned, folding her arms over her chest—Peggy had no idea what her own expression was, but knew it was doing her no favors.

"Is this what passes for work these days?" Eliza teased. "I really must meet this business associate of yours."

Peggy wrinkled her nose and began to make for the door of the study. She did not need to listen to this. Not from Eliza, of all people, newly pregnant and having just enjoyed six months of Alexander at home, on leave. It hadn't dampened Eliza's enthusiasm at all that her husband's respite from war came because he had challenged General Washington's top general to a duel, and even annoyed as she was, Peggy didn't have the heart to remind her.

There were better things for Peggy to be doing. This latest letter had come only that morning, and she had not yet responded.

She could be in her bedroom by now, the door locked, reading and rereading it—five full pages, this one, plenty to study—until she knew it by heart. The same as she knew all the ones that had come before it. And then, by spitting candlelight if need be, composing a reply of her own. This one in French, she had already decided, and dusted off her old school books from their semi-permanent state of repose for the occasion. So much to say, it was only fitting he should read it in his own language for once.

But she had only made it halfway to the door before Eliza laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, calling her back.

"Peggy, wait. I…"

Peggy turned back. She could hardly remember the last time she'd seen her sister without that cast of thoughtful sadness that seemed to follow her everywhere. It was hard not to grudge her that happiness. But she did her best.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry. You know I want the best for you. Both of you."

The plural melted the thin layer of frost from Peggy's eyes. She wanted to remain angry, but couldn't do it.

"I know that. I do."

"And that's not why I came in the first place. There's someone downstairs to see you."

Peggy stared. Clearly this was why their father had known better than to put Eliza in charge of practical matters.

"And you waited this long to tell me? Who is it?"

"Someone calling himself Mulligan."

 _Damn it, Eliza. If he's come in person, it means we don't have time to waste._

Peggy pushed past her sister and all but ran down the stairs into the entrance hall, where the stocky figure of Hercules Mulligan stood waiting impatiently. He was dressed warmly against the cold autumn air outside, and had not removed his coat or his boots. As he became attuned to the sound of Peggy's footsteps on the stairs, he turned and gave her a wry quarter-bow of recognition.

"Miss Schuyler. You took your time."

"Take that complaint up with my sister," she said, a little petulantly, which made him laugh. "Is it tonight?"

He nodded. "Ship's in the harbor already. If you want to get there before they pull anchor, we don't have much time."

She swore quietly under her breath. "All right. Let me get my coat and…"

"Forgive me, Miss Schuyler," Mulligan said wryly, his eyes traveling the length of Peggy's dress in a way that carried more exasperation than lewd intent, "but if you want to get from here to the docks without drawing questions we can't answer... Well, you're going to need to get a lot more than a coat."

Peggy paused a moment, risky excitement rising. Say what you would about the war, but sometimes it was the only way for a woman to find a little adventure.

"Eliza?" she called back up the stairs. "Is Alexander's room unlocked?"

Eliza appeared at the head of the stairs, frowning. "It is," she said dubiously. "Do I want to know why?"

"Probably not," Peggy agreed. "I need to borrow a few things."

#

Peggy followed close on Mulligan's heels as they wound their way through narrow side streets and around darkened corners toward the docks. The night was cold, and a light mist crept from the slate-gray water across the wooden quay, swirling around the boots and breeches that fit Alexander much better than they fit Peggy. His coat was too large for her, but gave her the straight silhouette she needed to pass through the streets unnoticed. A brimmed hat hid her hair and shadowed her face, and she kept her eyes turned low.

"Nearly there," Mulligan said under his breath. "And then, God willing, I can breathe easy again. I don't know why I allowed you to talk me into this."

"Come now," Peggy murmured. "I'm sure you've done stupider things than this before."

Mulligan's shoulders stiffened—he glared at Peggy as though she'd just slapped him across the face.

"Are you daft in the head, girl? Don't talk, unless you want to be found out. Evening, gentlemen," he said in his usual voice, nodding to a pair of sailors in long black coats watching the pair of them with no great interest. Both men nodded their recognition, then returned to their prior conversation.

Mulligan exhaled in relief. "Just be careful. You shouldn't be here," he reminded her, his voice almost a whine.

Peggy rolled her eyes, though Mulligan could not see it from beneath the hat. "I'd say the Sons of Liberty more than owe me a favor. Half the ships you're taking to Yorktown tonight are mine, and the other half you have thanks to me."

"Are you _physically incapable_ of keeping your voice down?" he demanded.

She'd barely been speaking above a whisper, but for Mulligan, plainly anything above a thought was too loud. Weren't spies supposed to be used to taking risks?

He led her to the ship at the far end of the dock, a strong vessel with the gangplank lowered, swirled about in autumn mist off the harbor, flying no colors. For a moment, apprehension gave her pause. _What if he doesn't want to see you? What if he's been writing you letters so long he doesn't remember what you're really like, and he takes one look at you and realizes he's been wasting his time?_

She glanced over; Mulligan had nudged her shoulder, and was grinning encouragement.

"Go on," he said. "They're setting sail in thirty minutes."

She nodded her thanks, took a deep breath, and mounted the gangplank until the flat boards of the deck pressed against the soles of her boots. The deck was a flurry of frantic activity, and yet perfectly silent. Men in unremarkable, drab clothes spoke in undertones, checking ropes and crates, peering every so often toward the quay in search of suspicious eyes.

It took Peggy less than a minute to locate Rochambeau among the chaos. A portly figure with his prodigious black mustache in full sail, he lent the scene a kind of stability, the same reliable anchor he had been in the Albany tavern when he and Peggy had run the blockade, first on paper and then on the waves.

And beside him, she saw now, a tall, slim young man in a long dark blue coat that fit him poorly, dark hair tied out of his face with a small length of cord. The young man's back was to Peggy, so she could not see his face. But the set of his shoulders, the movement of his hands as he gestured, they were so familiar they might have been torn from a dream.

She came closer on silent feet, close enough to catch a snatch of his voice, speaking rapid-fire French to Rochambeau.

" _La cavalerie a été_ _laissé sous la charge du Colonel Burr, oui, mais je vous répète, capitan, si nous voulons avoir la moindre chance du tout, il faut que nous_ _—"_

"Excuse me, Major General," Rochambeau interrupted in his heavily accented English. "We have a visitor, unless I am much mistaken."

The naval captain had caught sight of Peggy, and nodded in her direction. A knowing, roguish gleam glittered in his black eyes—Mulligan must have told him in advance, for he was doing everything in his power to keep from laughing.

Lafayette turned.

Peggy thanked God for the broad-brimmed hat shielding her face, for she found herself staring shamelessly at him, an imagination made real. He was thinner now, his brown eyes set deeper in a face more angular than she remembered. A thin white scar trailed along his right cheekbone, older than the smaller one beneath his left eye that had not yet fully faded. There was something more fragile about him, as if his bones were now as hollow as a sparrow's, and he might shatter at the touch. And at the same time, a lithe, whip-thin hardness, the steel of a rapier in his movements.

Different, in so many ways different. And yet the same.

He frowned. "Who's sent you, boy?" he asked, peering at her. His accent had faded since they had last spoken; if she blinked, she might miss it.

Peggy grinned. "Why, me, sir? No one. I sent myself."

Lafayette froze. He stared at her in plain disbelief, clearly doubting his eyes, his ears, his mind.

"Take off your hat," he said, his voice more strained than it had been a moment ago.

With a flourish, Peggy swept the hat off, letting the strands of pale brown hair that had escaped the knot at the top of her head flutter in the sea breeze.

"It's good to see you again," she said simply.

Lafayette's breath hissed in sharply; a hand hovered in front of his mouth, unbidden. He had momentarily lost all knowledge of words. He had forgotten to breathe. Tentatively, he extended the hand toward hers. She took it and held it tightly, to prove to him that she was real, flesh and blood that could touch, and be touched.

"Peggy," he whispered. "I… How…"

But words were useless; just as well, for he could not use them.

He pulled her close into a tight embrace, holding her with a starving man's desperation, and Peggy twined her arms around him and felt his warmth soak into her bones, healing her of an injury she hadn't known she'd had. She buried her head in his shoulder, filling herself with the scent of him, cedar and polished steel. His embrace was strong, but she could feel his hands trembling.

It seemed many minutes before they moved apart, enough for Lafayette to kiss her gently on the cheek. _A gentleman's reserve_ , she thought, and both loved and hated him for it. He looked her deeply in the eyes, as though committing her to memory.

And then, abruptly, he turned and rounded on Rochambeau, accosting him with a tirade of relentless French.

"You knew, you _knew,_ all this time, and you never said anything to me? _Merde de chien, vous, fils de putain, je_ …"

"Come now, marquis," Rochambeau said agreeably, as Peggy dissolved into a fit of laughter. "That would have ruined the surprise."

"He has a point," Peggy admitted.

Lafayette turned back to her, all traces of anger disappearing. He took both her hands in his. Cold against the autumn air, but she had never felt warmer.

"You make a convincing boy," he said drily.

"It's amazing what a coat and breeches can do," she agreed. "I had to make sure no one noticed me coming. I couldn't have seen you before the battle if I hadn't."

"Are our plans really such common knowledge in Albany?"

"Of course not. I've been working with the Sons of Liberty. With Hercules Mulligan. Managing our naval operations. Your secrets are my secrets."

He smiled again and reached to brush a wayward strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered a long moment.

"It's a good thing I didn't know you were an undercover rebel spy when first we danced in Albany," he remarked.

She frowned. "Why? Do you regret it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Hardly. If I'd known then, I would have defected from the army, run off with you immediately, and caused the scandal of the century."

Peggy beamed and pulled him close again, half-aware of a deckfull of sailors who had abandoned their preparations and now stood watching the two of them. Mulligan and Rochambeau were whispering together, and Peggy was in no doubt as to the general tenor of what they were saying.

"I've missed you," she murmured in his ear, the words inadequate, but the only thing she could think to say.

He embraced her more tightly in reply. "Your letters were beautiful," he said. His breath was warm against her cheek before he broke away to look at her again. "But it is not the same as holding you again. Nothing is. Nothing could be."

A young sailor of perhaps eighteen approached, hanging several respectful steps back. When neither Peggy nor Lafayette addressed him, he was forced to resort to tapping Lafayette sheepishly on the shoulder. At this, he could not help but turn.

"Major General," the boy stammered, "we lift anchor in fifteen minutes."

"I know," Lafayette replied. He did not look away from Peggy. "I will be ready."

The boy ducked away again, leaving them alone.

"Yorktown," Peggy said thoughtfully. Her hand trailed absently over Lafayette's shoulder, down his arm, interlacing her fingers with his. "An important battle."

"The last battle, if we play it as we should," Lafayette replied, eyes dancing with a soldier's anticipation, a beam of light reflected off a bayonet. "We have every advantage. Numbers, ships, location, timing. And so much of that thanks to you."

She brushed this aside. After the war was won, perhaps then they could speak about how she had helped to save the Continental Army. But not until that army was well and truly saved.

"You'll be safe?" she asked.

He grinned, a young man's bravado, the shining white flash of immortality. "Of course. I have to be. I'm fighting for you. And I will never let anything happen to you."

Peggy raised her eyebrows skeptically. "At this point," she remarked, "I rather think I'm making things happen to myself."

Lafayette laughed softly. "It's true. And a good thing I've never counted obedience as one of your faults."

She could almost hear her father's voice drifting through the chill autumn wind, as he had spoken hundreds of times before the war, regarding her with a look halfway between exasperation and faint disdain. _Margaret, why do you never listen? Do what I tell you. The road to a husband is not paved with willful disobedience._

"I'm glad you think obedience is a fault, not a virtue."

"Oh, of course," he said—the space between them, previously some three inches, shrank to one. "Why would I want you to be obedient when you have such an incredible ability to surprise me?"

"Never a dull moment in wartime," she agreed.

He didn't need to speak to show he was in accord. His whole body seemed to vibrate with anticipation, a ravenous energy possessing him like lightning trapped in a glass bottle. The soldier half of his brain. One she had not seen before, and which she found she loved as well as the other, if differently.

"Please be careful," she said. Almost immediately, she cringed at the pointlessness of the sentence. When she wrote to him, she had hours to choose her words carefully, so carefully, to say exactly what she meant. But he understood.

"Always. I swear, Peggy, when I return from Yorktown, General Washington and I will have a new country to lay at your feet."

"I don't care about that," she said, not sure whether or not she meant it, only knowing that it felt true at that moment. "Only bring yourself back. I need to introduce you to my father still. After all," she said wryly, "if he doesn't approve of you, this has all been a terrible waste of time."

Lafayette stared for a moment, before he was surprised into laughter. "Even you wouldn't be so cruel."

"To you, or to myself? Either way, I could never."

This time, the source of the gentle tap on Lafayette's shoulder was not a sheepish boy of eighteen, but Captain Rochambeau himself. He regarded the pair with an indulgent smile, inclining his head lightly at Peggy.

" _Je m'excuse_ , Mademoiselle Schuyler," he said, and looked as though he meant the apology. "But I fear I must borrow my major general back from you. There is, after all, a war on."

Her heart sank—so short a time? But of course, the ship was only pausing here to restock. A ship's worth of soldiers and arms could not be delayed so that Peggy and Lafayette could speak in private. She was lucky to have had the time she'd been given. Hiding her disappointment with a smile, the way she and her sisters had done for years at balls with dull dancing partners, she nodded at the captain.

"Of course," she said. "One minute, and he's yours, Captain."

"Hardly," Lafayette replied. "Yours first, always. His after."

"I should hope so," she said drily. "If you prefer Rochambeau to me, war has changed you much more than I'd thought."

He laughed. "No. I've changed, perhaps, but not that much."

"My father will be delighted to hear it."

"When I meet him after the war, I hope I can persuade him that I have more good qualities than just that to my name."

Lafayette looked over his shoulder, a little nervously—though what exactly he expected to see, Peggy wasn't sure. It was the same scene as it had ever been, sailors hastily going about their business, preparing to set sail, though now and again one of them took long enough to glance at the pair with something more than passive interest. When he turned back to her, there was something else in his expression. Something that threw caution to the four winds. The same look that had possessed him the first time they had danced in Albany, that reckless look that boded many things, and few of them polite.

"Peggy?"

 _Was he going to make her drag it out of him?_

"Yes?"

"Before you go…may I say goodbye?"

She knew what he meant, of course, he was not exactly being subtle, but she would not let him get away that easily. "Didn't you just?"

"Properly."

She grinned and, in full view of some seventy sailors, slipped one arm around his waist, the other around his neck. She heard his breath catch with something that was not surprise, and laughed. Master of military strategy, perhaps, but he was not the only one who knew how to lay the field for his own advantage. There were still several things she could teach him.

"You great fool," she said, trailing the pad of her thumb along the scar marring his cheekbone. "Did you think I'd say no?"

And she kissed him, kissed him with a back-alley passion that would have scandalized every respectable person within fifty miles. The first moment, he seemed surprised, almost into inaction. But he had no shy, retiring Juliet on his hands, and would do well to remember it. It was only a quarter of a second before he came back into himself, pulled her into him, so close it almost hurt, but the gasp she breathed against his lips was not from pain. His kiss filled her lungs with his breath, her mind with his complete, unveiled self. His kiss tasted as he smelled, warm, solid, real, something she would always have.

Something to hold onto, no matter how war turned the world upside-down.

From behind them, Rochambeau made a carrying remark in French to one of the sailors—Peggy did not understand it, but Lafayette plainly did, judging by the vulgar one-handed gesture he flashed the captain from behind his back.

And then, because nothing perfect could last, because time would have its way with everything, they broke apart, to the lewd winks and whispers of the ship's crew. Mulligan appeared at Peggy's elbow, tugging her in the direction of the gangplank. She shrugged him off and kissed Lafayette once more.

"I'll see you on the other side of the war," she whispered, and then Mulligan led her away, down the gangplank, back into the mist of the docks, her hat firmly in place to hide the irrepressible smile that threatened to split her face in two.

#

Lafayette leaned over the ship's rail, letting the ocean breeze toy with his hair. The waves lapped softly against the hull of the ship, murmuring a wordless lullaby. Virginia was two days' sail away—he watched as the ship left the harbor farther and farther behind, until the lights of the city's taverns and houses and glittering lanterns were lost beneath the faint pinpricks of the stars.

"Your lover-spy is a very special woman," Rochambeau said from beside him.

Lafayette flinched and turned. For a man of his size, the captain had an unnerving ability to appear without warning. Rochambeau leaned his forearms on the rail, hands clasped loosely in front of him, watching the young marquis with a parental sort of amusement.

"You're very lucky, Monsieur de Lafayette. I hope you realize."

"I am," Lafayette agreed, looking back at the smudge on the horizon, all that remained now of land. "I do."


	7. Armistice

A/N: At long, long last, I'm finally back with an update! I'd apologize for how long it took and give some half-baked excuse about how wild my life has been these past six weeks, but that's a waste of everyone's time. So instead, let's jump into this chapter of sheer, unapologetic Peggy/Lafayette fluff. Because why not?

Also, I know the Treaty of Paris wasn't signed until two whole years after the Battle of Yorktown, but when have I ever let the facts of history stand in my way before? Literally never, that's when.

Also also, and I should have brought this up first, you are the _most wonderful readers I've ever had in my whole life_ , and you're filling my days with joy. So thanks for that :)

* * *

 _7 October 1781_

 _Albany, New York_

Peggy craned her neck over the crowd in Hanover Street, trying to spot the shining bayonets of the returning soldiers above the heads of cheering, singing, laughing New Yorkers. _Yorktown, victory, nation, America,_ words echoed around her head in a sugar-spun cloud of celebration, but she could not find her voice to join them.

She had never complained about her height before—unlike Angelica, her figure did not command a room the moment she entered it, but also unlike Angelica, she had never particularly wanted it to. Still, with her direct view of the shoulders of most of New York, she indulged in a rare moment of lamentation for the four inches of height she could have used.

From beside her, Eliza laid her hand gently on Peggy's shoulder and smiled.

"Don't worry," she said. "He's coming."

"You can't know that," Peggy replied, staunchly married to the idea that no news was catastrophe. "The list of casualties from Yorktown was never published. And they'd tell you if Alexander was wounded, but who would tell me if—"

"Alex!"

And Eliza was swept off her feet, quite literally, by a man in a blue coat who, in order to reach his wife, had shoved aside no fewer than thirty New York citizens in various states of disgruntledness, knocking one unfortunate man full to the ground. Peggy stepped aside, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head as Alexander whirled Eliza in a merry, wild circle, spreading the crowd around them out of necessity. Her sister's laughter rang as high and clear as the bells in the church nearby.

"Alex, please, the baby!" she managed.

"The baby," Alexander repeated, and set Eliza down as though she were made of glass.

He bent down to one knee and, with an air of reverence, kissed Eliza's eight-months-pregnant belly.

"Hello, little one," he said, grinning ear to ear. "I'm ready to meet you any day now, my son."

"And if it's a girl?" Peggy asked.

Alexander flinched, as though he hadn't noticed she was there. As if he'd thought he and his wife were entirely alone in their own private universe, where nothing mattered save this one perfect moment, his family back within his grasp.

"Then I will be the proud father of the most brilliant daughter in America," he replied.

Eliza beamed. But then, Peggy thought, Alexander had known what she wanted to hear. He might feign indifference, but in his heart he longed for a son.

He straightened up, twining one arm around Eliza's shoulders.

"Well, Schuyler sisters? Let the rest of the battalion file into town on their own time. I've found all I need. Shall we?"

"Not yet," Peggy said tersely. Again, she cursed her limited vantage point with every oath in her arsenal.

Alexander looked at her sideways a moment, before understanding dawned nearly immediately. "Ah, of course. I forgot. I'm an idiot."

"Concurred," Eliza added, aside.

But Alexander was in too good a mood to let his wife's gentle gibes dissuade him. He drew himself up to his full height, panning the whole of the crowd, before his eye caught on the object of his search.

"You'll find your Lancelot just there, little sister. Next to the general on his white horse. Go on," he said, grinning. "My wife and I have some catching up to do."

They did, apparently—and were in no mood to wait for a private room to get started.

More happiness to them, Peggy thought, rolling her eyes, and left them as soon as she was physically able. She shoved her way shamelessly through the crowd toward the center of the street, where the triumphant soldiers of the Continental Army returned from Yorktown to the capital of their new nation.

Peggy had learned the pull of patriotism these past few years, and had learned it quickly. But now was not the time for flag-waving and shouting.

 _Alexander could see him,_ she thought, her mind racing in double time to the slow, obstructed pace she was able to force forward. _And surely if he was wounded, or something dreadful had happened, Alexander would have mentioned, he would have said…_

The crowd broke in front of her, parting to reveal the tall, powerful figure of a strong-featured man on a white horse, with the golden stars of a general across his shoulders. And beside him, on foot, a young man of twenty-three, handsome face nicked by two thin white scars, turned away from her, speaking quickly to the general.

 _Unhurt. Unhurt and alive._ And the sound of his laugh as the general responded with some remark and a wry half-smile. It was enough to make Peggy want to weep, with the aching relief of it all. She would give herself time to weep, she knew. Later.

But not now.

Not when there was another course of action that made so much more sense.

Narrowly risking being trampled into the paving stones by the general's horse, she darted forward, laying one hand on the animal's withers.

"Excuse me, General," she said to Washington, who looked down at her in surprise.

"Miss?" he asked.

But had he taken the time to look at Lafayette, who had just tripped over absolutely nothing in his surprise, he would have understood.

"I need to borrow your major general for a brief moment," she said.

She was not given the chance to say more.

Lafayette abandoned all the restraint, polite propriety that had characterized his courtship until that moment. It did not matter that they were in the middle of the street, that he had not yet even said hello, that General George Washington himself was not half a foot away observing the whole affair.

Lafayette, dressed as a commander but grinning like a schoolboy, did not miss a beat. One hand nestled in her hair, the other encircling her waist, he pulled her close enough so that her body tingled with the warmth of him. She had just enough time to marvel how seamlessly their bodies fit together, as if one had been made for the other, before their lips met, and the kiss washed away her ability to think, to breathe, to act.

She did not even need to breathe. His breath in her lungs kept her body moving. The touch of his hands gave her the power to feel the world. With him and through him, one soul in two bodies, she let her mind abandon everything but the scent of him, the taste, the feel.

There was a God, she knew, as they pulled apart. And God lived in moments like this.

His dark eyes sparkled as he took in her face, his smile not faded an inch. He did not let go of her hands.

"I told you I would bring you back a country," he said.

She reached up to brush a wayward strand of hair from his forehead—a thin excuse to touch him in any way she could. "And I told you to bring yourself back."

"On both counts, I kept my promise."

A soft, small laugh caused them both to turn. Washington was watching the pair with an indulgent smile on his imperious face, the look of a godfather casually assessing his godson's life choices. It was a mark of the extent of Lafayette's happiness that not a single trace of embarrassment showed on his face.

"Am I correct," Washington remarked lightly, "in assuming that this is the Miss Margaret Schuyler to whom I am so indebted?"

Surprised, Peggy could do nothing but curtsey. "You owe me nothing, sir," she said. Her voice maintained a level of calm that surprised even herself. "You have given me a country."

"And a dashing young officer in the bargain." Washington winked. Lafayette's forestalled embarrassment could not withstand this, though he did his best. "You're right, Miss Schuyler. Our accounts do seem to be settled."

"General," Lafayette began, "might I…"

"The war is over, Major," Washington said, the same twinkle in his eye as in his words. "Go and profit from civilian life. Meet me on Wednesday morning at my lodgings," he added, before kicking his horse back into motion. "My long-suffering wife awaits me. I rather suspect she will not take kindly to waiting longer."

He was gone in a moment, a glorious figure even in departure, and resplendent on his white horse.

Peggy grinned and pulled Lafayette out of the street, toward the pair of Eliza and Alexander several yards away.

"Does the general live to torment you?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Lafayette, who grimaced.

"What he will do to pass the time now I am gone, I have no idea."

She stopped walking, halfway to their destination, and turned back to look at him. Just to look. The face never far from the prime of her thoughts, now standing next to her, holding her hand with one callused palm, those dark eyes looking back at her with an equal measure of confusion and wonderment.

"What?" he asked, when a long moment had passed and she had yet said nothing.

"I just want to look at you," she said honestly. "Listen to you speak. I…My God, do you know how I've missed you?"

"Yes." His hand had curled around her waist again; she relaxed into his touch. "Every day. Every moment. I missed you as a drowning man misses breathing."

"As an eagle misses the wind," drawled Alexander. "As a river misses the ocean. As a flea misses a rat."

Alexander had put himself back into the conversation with the delicacy of a battering ram. He slung one lanky arm around Lafayette's shoulder, the broad gestures of a drunk though he was sober as a Sunday. Peggy sidestepped him, narrowly avoiding the urge to give him a good kick.

"I know, _mon ami,_ I know it all.I've heard it all before," he drawled. "If a damned day went by without you sighing after my little sister, I swear to you now, I'll pack away my pen and never write again."

Peggy's annoyance melted away in a heartbeat. Suddenly Alexander's presence was not such a travesty after all.

"Oh?" she asked slyly. "And what else has he said about me?"

"I'll tell you myself," Lafayette said, disentangling himself from Alexander's one-armed embrace. "In _private._ "

Private. Time alone, only her and Lafayette, a darkened corner somewhere with the door locked and gentle candlelight adding a soft glow to the rises and angles of his face. Had there ever been a more beautiful arrangement of vowels and consonants than those making up the word "private"?

"We'll make sure to seat the two of you together at dinner tonight," Eliza remarked, diplomatically guiding Alexander to stand at her side rather than make a wild, impetuous nuisance of himself. Again.

Lafayette frowned. "Dinner?" he repeated.

"Peggy, didn't you tell him?" Alexander's grin boded only wickedness. "Dinner tonight, at Philip Schuyler's table. Angelica and her fiancé John Church, Eliza and me, Peggy and you."

Peggy glanced at Lafayette, who had suddenly gripped her hand as though she was the only solid thing anchoring him to the earth. She narrowly managed to keep from laughing at the look of abject terror on the young Frenchman's face.

"No," he said, his accent strengthening as it always did when he grew nervous. "She failed to mention that."

The image in front of his mind's eye wasn't difficult to guess. It was the same one facing Peggy at that moment. A winter's ball years ago, and a couple whirling across the floor in the free flow of the dance, and Philip Schuyler's arms-folded, brow-furrowed glare from the side of the room. But she could feign being at her ease as well as any. A woman of her age had to be an actress in some capacity, to survive the judging, appraising eyes of the world for so much as a day.

"You fought at Trenton and Saratoga and Yorktown, and you're afraid of dinner with my father?" she teased. "I promise you, no one will aim a bayonet at you from across the table."

"To be honest," Lafayette said grimly, "that might in fact be easier."

"Come on, then," Alexander scoffed, demonstrating again the extent to which patience was not his strongest suit. "Get changed, and get ready. Look the enemy in the face. As it were."

"I haven't any other clothes," Lafayette protested, as if that would be enough to save him.

"John Church is the best-dressed man this side of the Atlantic," Peggy remarked, grinning. "Come home with me. I daresay we can find you something."

#

In the spare bedroom of the Schuyler home in the north of Albany, Lafayette frowned at his reflection. The reversed version of himself, trapped in the mirror propped up on the vanity, frowned back. If only he could make his hair behave. Then he would look respectable, and Philip Schuyler could find nothing ill to say of him, and he could survive the evening without being on the receiving end of a lecture on the audacity of immigrants and soldiers before being thrown out in the street. He smoothed a few strands of dark hair into place. They immediately sprung back into their original position with almost sarcastic alacrity.

"You look fine. Don't worry."

Lafayette flinched. He had not heard Peggy enter, but there she was, dressed for dinner in a stunning pale purple silk, watching him with an easy smile. Her hair was, of course, impeccable.

"I worry as I breathe, Peggy."

Peggy shook her head. "He's going to like you," she said. "He's already decided he'll like you."

"He has never met me."

She sighed. "You'll have to accidently knock a young child into a well on your way to dinner to turn him against you."

Lafayette turned away from the mirror in irritation. It was simply not going to get better than this. "I've done worse, to be sure. Now. The black, or the green?"

He held up two jackets, one in either hand, both borrowed from the wardrobe of John Church, like the goddesses presenting Paris with an impossible choice. Peggy had been right—the sheer amount of clothes the man brought with him at any given moment was frankly astounding. Lafayette was slimmer than Church, but not by much, and they were nearly of a height. It would do in a pinch.

"The black," she said, pointing. "Definitely the black. You look more yourself when you're not wearing bright colors. Anything more exciting and you'll start to look like Hercules Mulligan."

Lafayette laughed despite himself and slipped the black jacket over his shoulders. "And that," he remarked, doing up the buttons, "is a fate I sincerely wish to avoid."

Fully dressed, he spread his arms wide, indicating the whole of his person to Peggy and presenting it for judgment.

"Well?"

He felt Peggy's eyes linger a moment more, along with that familiar yet incredulous joy that someone as perfect as Peggy Schuyler would ever look at him in that way.

"Astonishing," she said, stepping fully into the room now. "Let's not go downstairs to dinner after all. I'd much rather stay here and appreciate how good you look in that jacket." Her fingers trailed down the length of his arm, gently teasing. "And perhaps find out how well you look under it."

Lafayette grinned and kissed her, stopping the words with his lips. A gentle, warm kiss, no time for more, not with the rest of the family waiting still for the downstairs.

"Don't tempt me," he murmured, his breath a feather-touch against her cheek, "or I will hold you to that."

Peggy laughed and kissed him again. "Shall we?" she asked, lacing her fingers between his.

"Lead on, mademoiselle," Lafayette said somewhat grimly, and closed the bedroom door behind them as they left.


	8. Menu, Venue, and Seating

Folks. FOLKS. There are over a hundred people following this story. _A hundred_ _._ That's exactly a hundred more than I thought would have patience for me and this objectively absurd ship. I've never felt more blessed.

Also, this chapter is where I reveal my absolute conviction that Philip Schuyler is the 1781 equivalent of your racist uncle at Thanksgiving dinner. I have no evidence whatsoever with which to back this up. But in my head, it burns with the white-hot fire of truth.

* * *

Lafayette hesitated a long moment in the hall. A pair of servants, both late for one thing or another, spared him a sympathetic sideways glance as they hurried by. He pretended not to have seen them. Closing his eyes, he let himself remember the crystal-dripping, golden-paved halls of Versailles, where the King of France had received him at fourteen. If he could survive that audience, when he'd been nothing more than a boy with a too-large title and the vague beginnings of a military career, then by God in heaven he could walk into that room with his head held high.

He had, after all, just overthrown the British Empire. That had to count for something.

The faint pressure of someone's hand on his shoulder brought Lafayette back to himself. He glanced over to see that Peggy had appeared behind him, smiling that gently teasing smile he would have done anything for.

"Ready?" she asked.

He nodded. That nod was a shameless lie.

Stepping around him, Peggy opened the twin doors, took Lafayette's hand, and led him into the room.

This might be what, at the Schuyler manor, passed for a low-maintenance affair. Lafayette took a seat beside Peggy at the clearly expensive walnut table, set for seven. The smallest of three dining rooms, it was more than half-filled by the table itself, with room around the perimeter for servants to pass bearing various courses. High, narrow windows were set into the dark-paneled walls, but thick curtains had already been pulled to shut out the street.

He and Peggy were not alone—Angelica and her fiancé John Church had already arrived. Lafayette inclined his head to each of them in turn, Angelica with her lively black eyes and Church with a fastidiously trimmed beard the color of new-mown hay.

"Major General," Church said, and extended a large hand for Lafayette to shake. "A pleasure to at last have a face to put to the name. I've heard so much about your daring exploits."

There was something in Church's London accent that made it difficult to tell whether or not he was being sarcastic. At least he had not remarked on the origin of Lafayette's jacket, for which the Frenchman was enormously grateful.

Angelica had just begun to speak when the door to the dining-room opened again, admitting Eliza and a surprisingly subdued Alexander. Lafayette was halfway to an inappropriate remark meant to startle his friend back into his usual mood, when he realized why Alexander had so suddenly learned to behave himself.

Philip Schuyler followed close behind.

The man of the hour—in Schuyler's own opinion, the man of all hours. A handsome man of forty-five, and a war hero of the highest caliber. Wearing the blue officer's coat he must have worn home that morning. Leaning heavily on an iron-topped cane that thumped like a tired heartbeat against the floor with each step. A sharp look in his eye as he limped to the head of the table, scanning each of the men, who were all sufficiently intimidated to stand at near-attention as he entered.

He frowned down the table at Lafayette, who mercifully had placed Peggy between him and her father as a sort of neutral zone.

"So you're the insolent goddamned frog who's got it into his head to seduce my daughter, are you?" he asked. "No one told me you were such a child. Has your voice even broken yet, I wonder?"

Lafayette stared. It was a lucky thing Schuyler had already sat down, as Lafayette felt a sudden need to sink down into his own chair. He'd been afraid of many things, but even in his most horrifying imaginings, Schuyler had at least taken the trouble to be slightly subtle.

Peggy glared at her father in irritation—though not, Lafayette noticed, with surprise.

"Father, please—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Margaret," Schuyler scoffed. "You know he doesn't speak English. He doesn't understand a blessed word I'm saying."

Alexander glanced at Lafayette, half a laugh in his eyes. _Very well for him,_ Lafayette thought. Alexander had already charmed the cruelty out of Philip Schuyler. Hindsight could make anything funny.

"Forgive me, sir," he said in English, in a voice as polite and unaccented as he could manage, "but I'm not entirely sure she _does_ know that."

Peggy and Alexander both tried to mask their laughter. Neither achieved any great success.

Schuyler, for his part, stared at Lafayette in disbelief.

"They said you didn't speak a word—"

"Did they also mention my mustache and my fleet of ships?" Lafayette's nerves were fraying at the ends, but he kept his voice level and his hand on Peggy's knee. "They may have confused me with Captain Rochambeau. It happens."

The silence following this was agonizing. For a few long moments, Lafayette seriously considered making a run for it, propriety be damned. But then Schuyler laughed, the too-loud laugh of a man in his own house.

"Well, I'll be damned. But it's not the worst first impression I've made, is it? What was it I called your husband, Eliza, when I met him?"

Eliza blushed, plainly reluctant to reply.

"A tar-brushed creole bastard, wasn't it, sir?" Alexander volunteered brightly. His tone was light, but Lafayette could see from the way Eliza leaned her shoulder against him that he had not forgiven, and likely would never forgive.

"That's it, exactly. Well, it's as I say," Schuyler went on, leaning back in his chair—Lafayette heard his back crack with the movement. "There's no one good enough for my girls, no matter how well they speak the language, that's clear enough."

Between Lafayette's Parisian-slanted English, Church's London accent, and the faint undertones of Alexander's Caribbean lilt, none of the three men were wholly clear who among them had just been insulted.

"I quite agree, sir," Lafayette said, to be safe.

Peggy gripped Lafayette's hand tightly under the table. _You've fought wars and led armies,_ that hand seemed to say. _Surely you can endure the foolishness of one old man for one night._

Lafayette nudged her foot under the table. _I know,_ said the nudge. _Don't worry about me. I'll behave._

Fortunately, he was spared the profound awkwardness of having to make more conversation by the entrance of a small fleet of servants bearing the first course. Seizing the opportunity to have something to do with their hands, both Lafayette and Alexander made themselves unreasonably busy with their soup spoons.

"So, boy," Schuyler said to Lafayette, either pretending not to see the way the Frenchman's spine stiffened at the words or genuinely failing to notice it. "If you weren't a naval captain in the Army, what were you? Margaret tells me you had a relatively distinguished career."

At the far end of the table, Alexander choked on a mouthful of soup. Eliza glared daggers at him. She was obviously realizing how much she had overestimated his ability to behave.

"Father," Angelica said, enunciating carefully as though Schuyler were not confused, but merely hard of hearing, "this is Major General Lafayette."

The explanation did not seem to help Schuyler orient himself in the slightest.

"America's favorite fighting Frenchman," Alexander supplied, would-be helpfully, before Eliza silenced him again with a glare.

Still nothing.

But then, Lafayette was less than surprised. Schuyler had been an effective officer in his own right, but he'd never come off as the type to care about anything not of absolute and immediate concern to his own person.

"I served under General Washington," Lafayette explained, with what he desperately hoped was his most winning smile. "At Brandywine, at Monmouth, at Yorktown."

"A boy like you?" Schuyler demanded. "How old are you, at that?"

"Old enough to win a war, sir," he replied without missing a beat.

Peggy grinned. Check one against her father. Not, of course, that anyone at the table kept score.

"Well," Schuyler began, then cleared his throat extensively. Stalling for time, perhaps, or else surely he ought to have coughed up a lung by now. "I suppose. When I was your age, boy, there was none of the glory of the Continental Army. None of this business of fancy uniforms and foreign drill sergeants. No, when I led a scouting party up into Quebec…"

Peggy tugged on the sleeve of Lafayette's jacket, pulling close enough that she could whisper in his ear.

"Well done," she said under her breath. "He loves talking about Quebec. He'll entertain himself for the next fifteen minutes at least, and end up in a grand mood."

"What was that?" Schuyler asked sharply. "I won't have you whispering at my table."

"Nothing, Father," Peggy said brightly. "I was only telling Monsieur Lafayette that your stories about Quebec are my favorite. I've tried telling them a dozen times, but you tell it so much better."

Schuyler gave a small hum of approval and lapsed back into the thread of the narrative. Lafayette, for his part, began to relax. Now that he knew what kind of man Philip Schuyler was, it would be easy. A braggart, a lover of rules and order and tradition, another Horatio Gates, a Charles Lee. All it took was a listening ear and some well-timed flattery to get men like that exactly where you wanted them. And that much Lafayette was absolutely certain he could deliver.

Philip Schuyler's story of Quebec, for what it was worth, consisted of one part colorful exaggeration to three parts bald-faced lies. But Lafayette had not been raised a member of the French aristocracy for nothing. He nodded at the right moments, made interjections of surprise or awe at exactly the right moments, and somehow made it seem that nothing in the world existed other than the words passing from Philip Schuyler's mouth. The older officer, clearly delighted at finally having an audience who appreciated him appropriately, embellished the story to the breaking point. Lafayette graciously allowed it.

It was easier this way, not to be speaking about himself. To operate on the margins of the conversation, a part of it, but not at its center. He held Peggy's hand through the entirety of dinner, regardless of how difficult that made eating for the both of them. The evening was going well, as well as he possibly could have hoped, but that hardly helped keep him calm. Any situation that involved speaking to strangers for longer than twenty minutes sent Lafayette's heart beating at twice its normal speed. War, tactics, revolution, there he thrived. But put him in the drawing room, and suddenly a swift death seemed preferable.

Peggy would never have suspected it of him, not from the cool, collected man he had seemed to be the night they first met. But she had always been different. Not for a moment had being with Peggy felt like interacting with other people.

Speaking to her was like like speaking to himself.

"And that," Schuyler was concluding at long last—Lafayette forced himself to pay attention to the words again, "was how I single-handedly took Fort Saint-Jean, with nothing but a hatchet and a sawed-off musket. I'll bet your fellow French soldiers have never seen the like."

"No, sir," Lafayette agreed heartily, "I cannot say they have."

Alexander winked at Lafayette from the other end of the table, then leaned in to catch something Angelica was saying. Since Lafayette had diverted Schuyler's attention, the Hamiltons and the Churches had been able to section off their end of the table into a private conversation. Lafayette couldn't blame them. He would absolutely have done the same, if he could.

Schuyler leaned back in his chair again, heaving a deeply contented sigh. The new posture put the grandfather clock in the corner directly in his line of sight. He did the smallest of double-takes, as if the passage of time were an entirely new concept for him.

"Dear God, it can't be nine o'clock, can it?"

 _Oh, believe you me, sir,_ Lafayette thought, it _most assuredly can._

Some men were such natural-born storytellers that they could make two hours feel like the blink of an eye. Philip Schuyler was not one of these men.

With a small grunt of effort, Schuyler rose from his chair. He nearly fell back the first time, but Peggy leapt to her feet and steadied him, reaching for the silver-topped cane he had leaned against the table. Schuyler acknowledged her with a slightly irritated, nonverbal noise—plainly split down the middle between appreciating the help and resenting it. The rest of the table rose as one, on cue.

"Margaret, would you help me to the drawing-room?" Schuyler asked. "I would like to take care of some business tonight before I retire."

Peggy looked at her father skeptically. Lafayette could understand the reaction. Schuyler needed a good night's sleep the way Alexander needed to put down his pen and take a break. But in this as in most things, he was not the type to bear questioning.

"Of course, Father."

"It was an honor to make your acquaintance, General Schuyler," Lafayette said with a bow the likes of which he hadn't used since Versailles.

"Not so fast, boy," Schuyler said sharply. "You'll come too, if you'd be so kind. My business is with you."

Lafayette cringed. _Of course. That would have been too easy._

"Yes, sir," he said. "Absolutely."

Feeling his heart sink with every step he took, he joined Peggy and Schuyler as they left the room and made the short journey to the drawing-room. As he passed, Alexander nudged him in the shoulder and flashed him a quick double-thumbs-up—fortunately, Schuyler failed to notice it.

When they entered the small drawing-room, Schuyler sat heavily in the armchair closest to the fire. It was only October, with the full chill of winter still several weeks away, but he leaned toward the flames as though the cold of January had taken up residence in his bones. Peggy sat near him on the sofa, anxiously waiting for him to speak. Lafayette stood beside the hearth with his hands folded behind his back, waiting. It felt like standing in front of a firing squad, not knowing whether any of the guns aimed at his chest actually contained bullets. He did everything he could to keep the worry from his face.

"So. Lafayette."

He waited for Schuyler to finish the thought.

He waited for some time.

"Yes, sir?" he prompted, finally.

"I think I like you," Schuyler said simply.

Somehow, the way Schuyler said it, it did not sound like a ringing endorsement. But it was as close as Lafayette hoped to get.

"I am glad to hear that, sir."

"And you certainly seem to make my daughter happy, though God alone knows what she sees in you."

 _"Father,"_ Peggy groaned. "Could you try to be polite for ten minutes of your life?"

"Polite?" Schuyler scoffed. "Why be polite when you can be honest? And it's not as if I've insulted him. Not yet," he added, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

"If you want to insult me, sir, that is certainly your right," Lafayette said graciously. "Where can you insult a man, if not in your own house?"

Schuyler laughed. "You're clever. I like that. And a good listener. I like that too. But let me tell you one thing. And I want you to listen carefully."

"Of course, sir."

"I don't know how you handle courtship on the Continent, but here in America, we have rules, do you understand? There is a way that things are _done._ And you will keep yourself restrained within those limits, because whatever your lecherous French upbringing makes you think is acceptable, I promise you—"

Peggy let out a small wail of embarrassment and buried her face in her hands. If Lafayette could have melted into a puddle and been evaporated by the roaring fire, that would have been preferable.

"I promise you, sir," he stammered, hating himself for his own awkwardness with every syllable, "you have nothing, nothing at all, to worry about. I…"

"See to it that I don't," Schuyler agreed. "Treat my daughter well, boy. And know that if you don't, well, I still have the hatchet I used to take Fort Saint-Jean."

As a boy growing up in Paris, Lafayette had received his fair share of reprimands from figures of authority. He had been shouted at by superior officers, chastised by the fathers of his adolescent paramours, once publicly shamed by the Duc d'Orleans for having appeared seven minutes late to dinner. This was, however, the very first time he'd been threatened with a hatchet.

"Yes, sir," he said, and bowed hastily. "I will keep that at the front of my thoughts."

Schuyler nodded. "Go, then. Both of you. There are some papers I would read through tonight. I'll ring for the servants to help me to bed."

He did not need to tell them twice. Peggy and Lafayette were through the door almost before he had finished the sentence.

In the hall, Lafayette leaned his back against the closed door to the drawing-room and closed his eyes. He felt suddenly light-headed, as though he'd just run fifteen miles instead of sitting through a dinner. Peggy, a few steps away, folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one leg.

"That went well," she said, grinning. "He's enamored with you."

Lafayette's eyes snapped open. "I beg your pardon?"

"Trust me. He adores you. You should see how he treats people he _doesn't_ like."

"Pray God I never have to."

She slipped one arm around his waist, leading him away from the door, and Lafayette abruptly forgot he had spent the entire evening on the brink of a panic attack.

"You were perfect," she said, her breath close against his cheek. "Absolutely perfect. A stunning tactical triumph. Why don't we"—her hand around his waist slipped lower, and he swallowed a gasp—"retire upstairs, for the victory celebration?"

He could not remember ever having heard a better suggestion.

"Are you not worried about my lecherous French upbringing?" he murmured in her ear.

"Do you know, that's actually one of the things I like best about you."


	9. Give You the World

Note: I did end up changing the rating of this story because of this chapter. I'm not expecting future scenes to get more down and dirty with the details than this one does, but as NPR likes to put it, "This story does acknowledge the existence of sex."

So anyway, there's that.

* * *

 _8 January 1785_

Peggy almost didn't recognize Aaron Burr when he was in a good mood. Every time she'd met him, he'd been brazenly forward, cuttingly sarcastic, inscrutable and distant. Now, she was left to look on in a mild state of shock as Burr thrust open the door to the stately townhome on the west side of town, positively beaming.

"Major General! Excellent to see you again."

And he embraced Lafayette like a brother, there in plain sight on the veranda.

Peggy glanced at Lafayette, who, upon his release, gave her a small—yet utterly bewildered—shrug. Plainly she was not the only one of the opinion that Burr had lost his mind.

"And Miss Schuyler too, of course," Burr added, still smiling.

Peggy gave a small curtsey. Mercifully, Burr stopped short of extending the hug to both parties.

"Come in, please, come in."

Burr led them into the front parlor, where a warm fire blazed in the hearth, not far from a stunning grand piano. Peggy made a mental note to mention it to Eliza. It was gorgeous, so much better than the rickety upright Alexander had brought home, the one that would never keep in tune. Maybe Mrs. Burr would know where to find another like it.

She and Lafayette sat side by side on the sofa. His knee nudged hers, their shoulders touching, and she grinned. After the war, he'd seen no reason to keep his hands off her, and so by and large had not. Not, of course, that she minded.

"How is she, Burr?" Lafayette asked. "Well?"

Burr's whole face lit up. He was almost handsome when he was happy, Peggy thought. Or perhaps it was only his uncharacteristic joy that was attractive. Either way, it was good to see Burr smile and mean it.

"Well? Better than well. The best. She's perfect. Would you like to meet her?"

Lafayette inclined his head. "It would be an honor," he said gravely—until the façade broke with a smile.

Burr laughed. Actually laughed. Peggy reminded herself to tell Angelica, though she knew her sister would never believe it.

"She's with my wife upstairs. I'll be right back."

He bounded from the room, leaving Peggy and Lafayette alone. Enjoying the privacy, she stole a brief kiss, then laid her head comfortably on his shoulder.

"I'll admit," she said, "I thought you were mad, suggesting we call on Mr. Burr. But he's being downright pleasant."

"It's unnerving, no?" The vibration of Lafayette's voice resonated against her ear. "Pleasantness and Aaron Burr go together like Alexander Hamilton and good sense."

Peggy lifted her head to look at him. "Are you suggesting that Alexander is in fact capable of good sense?"

"Aaron Burr hugged me on the veranda," Lafayette reminded her. "At this moment, I am inclined to believe anything is possible."

She shook her head. "Has anyone ever told you you're utterly ridiculous?"

He grinned. "Not once. That is why I keep you close. To remind me."

She sidled slightly closer—not that there was much room to grow closer with their shoulders already touching, but what little space there was, she availed herself of it.

"Are you sure that's the only reason?"

Before he could reply, and no doubt escalate the situation to one highly inappropriate for someone else's parlor, Burr appeared again in the doorway. The same irrepressible smile lit up his face. In his arms, held as delicately as the world's most precious treasure, was a baby girl.

A tiny girl, no more than six weeks old. A small fuzz of dark hair, a strong nose, the largest black eyes Peggy had ever seen in a child's face. Peggy didn't usually hold with complimenting other people's children. One baby was more or less like another, as far as she was concerned. But there was no two ways about it: little Theodosia Burr would grow up to be beautiful. She was beautiful now already.

"She's perfect," Peggy said, as Burr sat in a chair at her side, still cradling Theodosia. "Absolutely perfect."

"May I hold her?"

Peggy looked at Lafayette in surprise. They had never talked about children, of course. It was not the kind of thing that came up by accident. But somehow she had always imagined that Lafayette would be one of those men who was starkly terrified of babies, who feared he'd break them if he touched them.

Burr nodded, and in a moment Theodosia was comfortable in Lafayette's arms, her head supported just so. He rocked her gently, the way Peggy had seen Eliza do with little Philip. Lafayette smiled at the baby, a genuine smile, and murmured something softly to her. So tenderly Peggy almost did not realize it was in French.

" _Salut, ma petite oiseau. Que tu es belle, non? Ça vient du côt_ _é_ _de ta mère, c'est certain_ _…"_

Theodosia looked up at him with her wide, black eyes. At the sound of his voice, her little face warmed into a wide, toothless smile. She gurgled contentedly at Lafayette, who beamed back at her, plainly delighted.

"She likes you, Major General," Burr said, unnecessarily.

"Can you blame her?" Peggy asked.

She'd thought Lafayette was by now incapable of surprising her. Thought she'd known every way she could possibly love him. But this…Imagining Lafayette on his hands and knees, playing at horse and rider with a little boy not two feet tall. Lafayette singing a lullaby to a wide-eyed girl of his own. Telling them bedtime stories, tucking them in at night, keeping them safe. Peggy wanted to laugh and cry both, and wasn't sure which to do first.

Fortunately, she was able to refrain from doing either. Aaron Burr was one of the last people she wanted to explain a paroxysm of emotion to, even in his current and unprecedented good mood.

The visit concluded an hour or so later, though with the pleasant distraction of little Theodosia the time passed more quickly than she could have imagined. It seemed only a matter of minutes before Lafayette and Peggy were saying their farewells and spilling out again into the street. She pressed close to him, siphoning the warmth from his body as their breath rose opaque in the cold.

It struck her as odd, for a moment, that they had not seen the elder Theodosia Burr for even a moment. _But no_ , she reminded herself, _that's unfair._ Word about town was that Mrs. Burr suffered from ill health—a lie just vague enough to defy any sort of closer scrutiny. More likely, Mrs. Burr's absence had nothing at all to do with her health, and much more to do with the rumors circulating Albany about how quickly her second marriage had followed on the heels of her first husband's death. A conversation any right-thinking woman would be quick to avoid, were it possible.

 _Poor woman,_ Peggy thought. _It must be so dull, locked up in that great house, with no one but Burr for company. At least she has the child now._

She nestled closer to Lafayette as if to spite the imagined gossips and rumormongers, daring the streets to say something.

"I never knew you were so enamored with children," she said, as they moved away from the Burrs' residence toward the center of town.

"Enamored?" he repeated with a laugh. "Not so much as Burr is, but the impulse is stronger with one's own children, I imagine."

Perhaps it was unwise, pushing the subject so far, but Peggy's contribution to their relationship so far had been a never-ending series of unwise decisions, and look at where they'd gotten her.

"I think you would make an excellent father," she said slyly, looking at him sideways to gauge his reaction. "And of handsome children, too."

A year ago, a remark like that would have caused Lafayette to dissolve into a hacking cough before attempting a hasty, heavy-handed change of subject.

But he was learning quickly. He kissed her softly, a teasing, exasperated kind of kiss, before looking at her with his head cocked to one side.

"Do you spend a great deal of time imagining what my children would look like?" The lingering traces of his accent added a sarcastic slant to the words.

Peggy shrugged. "Oh, now and again. It's a nice thing to think about."

"Only because you never saw me as a child. I promise you, awkward and uninspiring as I am now, it was much worse twenty years ago."

"'Awkward and uninspiring'?" she repeated. "You? I refuse to endure such slander."

"You are more forgiving than I deserve," he murmured.

She shivered at the strong embrace of his arms around her. His lips brushed the tender skin of her neck and she gasped, startled but not at all displeased.

" _Here?_ "

The breath of his laugh wandered along her throat. "Why not? Here. Anywhere. Everywhere."

Maybe he was learning _too_ quickly.

She wanted to protest, on the grounds that they were standing in the middle of the city where her father lived, on the grounds that the sparkling hunger spreading from her belly to every corner of her body could not be hidden. But he kissed her again, more urgently this time, and her best-planned protests crumbled into a low, wordless hum of pleasure.

"How far to your rooms?" she managed, finally.

He paused—she couldn't blame him. They'd hardly been Puritans, admittedly. There were few parts of his body she had not explored, and his understanding of her body was unparalleled. But there had always been a mutual understanding, unspoken but tangible, that there was a certain line they would not cross, not until the time came.

He'd heard in her voice, though, the open invitation. The sense that the time had come, if he wanted it.

"Half a mile," he murmured.

Half a mile had never felt so far.

"Come on," she said. With a Herculean effort, she disentangled herself from his arms.

He gave a small whimper of protest as she separated herself from him, an impossibly endearing, childish sound. Peggy took him by the waist, leading him farther down the street.

"But—" he protested.

She laid two fingers on his lips, silencing him mid-sentence.

"For what I want to do," she said, "I promise you, we'll want a room."

Abruptly, Lafayette had quite run out of protests.

#

They threw open the door to the boarding-house like a clap of thunder, a small dusting of snow blowing in at their heels. The landlady looked up with interest. She had been sitting behind the counter crocheting what might have been a sock, if one was feeling generous and squinted a little.

"Monsieur le Marquis," she said—butchering the pronunciation as all New Yorkers did, but nevertheless clearly enjoying the way the phrase _Monsieur le Marquis_ sounded when spoken in her boarding-house. "It's early yet, I didn't expect you back until…"

She trailed off, a fierce blush rising in her face. The landlady had caught sight of Peggy, flushed with rapid walking, still hand-in-hand with Lafayette. Peggy grinned. An inappropriate laugh threatened to bubble over, but she clutched her own self-possession as fiercely as his hand.

"Change of plans, madame," Lafayette said graciously, with a small bow Peggy knew was meant to hide his smile. "Now, if you'll excuse us…"

And he pulled Peggy up the rickety stairs to the third landing, where he quickly unlocked the first door on the left. They ducked inside, and he closed the door behind him as though afraid an animal would escape if he left it open too long.

Compared to Peggy's bedroom at the Schuyler manor, Lafayette's rooms were startlingly bare. A frosted-glass window on the far wall let in muted, barely sufficient light, illuminating the room's tobacco-stained wood paneling, the scuffed floors, the understuffed sofa. On the slanted desk beneath the window, weighted down with a half-full bottle of ale, a dog-eared copy of Rousseau's _Confessions_ splayed open to a page in the middle.

He stood in the center of the room, already having kicked off his boots and shrugged off his coat, looking utterly at home in the surroundings.

"Not much for a marquis," she joked.

"That is your fault," he said, grinning.

"Me? How?"

"I had no intention of staying this long," he replied. "So I never looked into better lodgings. If not for you, I would be back in France, living in my own chateau."

"Well…I suppose I'll have to make it up to you, won't I?"

"Oh, I insist."

And before she knew it, he had swept her up in his arms—stronger than he looked, as she was constantly remembering—lifted her clean off the floor and, like a husband carrying his new bride over the threshold, bore her into the back bedroom, buoyed by the glittering sound of her laughter.

The bedroom was no grander than the rest of the flat had been, but Peggy could not stop smiling. The coarse mattress against her back felt like the softest down. That was, until Lafayette's kiss drove her from her own brain, prevented her from feeling anything else, thinking anything else. She moved to her knees, not breaking the kiss, feeling his fingers navigate the buttons lining the back of her dress along her spine.

The cool air of the drafty room felt heavenly against her bare skin; the dress landed against the floor some ten feet away, useless. Her hands were no less eager than his, easing him out of his jacket, tugging his shirt over his head, navigating the button of his trousers. He helped as best he could, more than fully occupied covering every inch of Peggy's body with kisses that turned her skin to stars, her mind to mist. Why did they tell people to wait? When coming so close felt so good, what was the good in putting off perfection?

It felt so incredible she barely even wondered how Lafayette had learned to kiss a woman this way in the first place.

"What happened to the shy boy who went off to war?" she gasped.

" _You_ happened to him," he whispered. "Do you miss him?"

"Don't _stop_ , you idiot."

He laughed, a laugh too genuine to spare a thought for polite volume. He was above her now, his hands against her shoulders, his hips against hers, his well-muscled chest and stretched-tight belly moving with ragged, hungry breaths. She thought, as she had thought a thousand times since their first dance at Eliza's wedding, that she had never seen anyone or anything so beautiful.

A fairy-tale soldier, waltzed out of a novel, but better than that, because his flaws and anxieties and hesitations gave her something real to hold onto, something to long for.

And all made better still by the impossible, irrational fact that he could look at her with the same fierce, all-encompassing hunger that filled her when she looked at him. A self-creating love, endless, feeding on its own existence. She wanted him so badly she thought she would faint with the urgency of it.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked quietly. A rough voice, as though swallowing down some great, wordless tremor.

Peggy curled one hand into his hair and pulled him down to her, tingled with the sigh of his own satisfaction against her bare skin.

"Yes," she said, and said it again with every heartbeat, "yes, yes, yes—"

"Monsieur Lafayette, I—oh."

A man's voice from behind them. Apologetic. Deferential. And then, suddenly, deeply, agonizingly flustered.

Peggy's heart stopped.

 _Why in the name of God did we not lock the door?_

She looked in horror at Lafayette. His expression was the perfect mirror image of her own.

That did it. If her father caught word of this, Philip Schuyler wouldn't even need to lift a finger. She'd drop dead of embarrassment all on her own.

Lafayette whispered something in French, something she did not catch but knew from the inflection to be a curse. Then, with an impressive show of dignity, he shifted to the side of Peggy. With a gallant flick of his wrist, he twitched the sheet over her, preserving what of her modesty could still be preserved. Then—she saw the way he set his jaw before doing it—he rose naked from the bed, carefully keeping his backside to the door. He scooped up his trousers from the floor, gracefully shimmied into them, and turned to face the stammering, crimson-faced servant now standing frozen in the doorway.

"Knocking, I believe, is the custom."

Peggy, from beneath the sheet, thought she might vomit from vicarious embarrassment, but Lafayette's voice had come out as cool as could be. Every inch the detached aristocrat, one who had been caught in the middle of more scandalous activities than this. It was powerfully at odds with the anxious way he crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, then put his hands in his pockets, then removed them again.

"Yes, sir, of course, I never meant to interrupt…"

"And yet here we are. Do you require something?"

"A…a letter for you, sir." The servant thrust it forward; the paper rustled in his trembling hand. "They say it's urgent."

"For their sake, I hope they are right." Lafayette snatched the page, then looked at the servant expectantly. "Is there anything else?"

"N-no, sir."

"And will you mention this to anyone, for any reason at all?"

"N-n-not a word, sir."

"Good. You may go."

The servant bowed low, then all but bolted through the door and back down the stairs, slamming the door behind him. Lafayette sank down on the edge of the bed—his hands, Peggy could see, were trembling. Leaving the safety of her sheet behind, she sat beside him and curled an arm around his shoulders. Her heart was beating twice as fast as it should have, true. But compared to the fiasco that very well could have occurred, there was still something to be thankful for.

"Well," she said conversationally, doing her very best to reassure him. "That didn't go quite as planned."

"Peggy, I could _die._ "

 _Die_ was perhaps a bit melodramatic, but _vomit_ was certainly well within the realm of possibility.

She ought to have been angry, she knew, and frustration _was_ in the back of her mind. But there would be time to try again. Try again and lock the door, what was more. And suddenly, though she still itched to return to where they'd left off, there was something else to contend with. She'd caught sight of the seal adorning the back of the letter in Lafayette's hand. A crowned man atop a golden throne, surrounded by three fleur-de-lis.

"Aren't you going to read it?" she asked, gesturing.

He looked down, seeing the seal clearly for the first time. She heard his breath catch slightly in the back of his throat, before he nodded grimly and slit open the envelope with the side of his finger.

The page within was covered in grand, flowing handwriting, at least as many flourishes as there were letters. Peggy tried to read over his shoulder, but the French she'd picked up in her recently renewed study was not enough to master this. She settled for reading his face instead. That, at least, was perfectly legible.

His frown deepened with each line. After a moment, he ran his left hand over his mouth and stood up, pacing to the door and back as he read, giving vent to the nervous energy releasing from the letter. At long last, he put it down, tilted his head back, and sighed. He did not speak.

She waited a moment, but could bear it no longer.

"Who is it from?"

"Who indeed." He sighed again, and let the hand holding the letter drop to his side. "His Majesty Louis XIV."

Peggy's jaw dropped. "The King of France?"

"Unless there is another Louis XIV. Paris is on the brink of revolution. The country is in financial ruin. The people are finished with patience."

A chill settled in the pit of Peggy's chest. He had not finished the thought. Probably he did not need to. But if he meant what she thought he meant, she wanted to hear him say it.

"But you already knew all this."

"Now His Majesty is calling for an _Assemblée des Notables_ in two months' time, to address the crisis. And he wants me to be a part of it."

"You mean…"

"Yes. I leave for France within the week."


	10. Can We Confer?

Guys, is it appropriate for me to use this space to yell about how I just scored tickets for Hamilton's upcoming Chicago run? I feel like it's appropriate. I've basically been screaming nonstop since Tuesday. Shot: **not thrown away.**

Sorry for this irrelevant author's note. We now return to your previously scheduled chapter.

* * *

X.

 _Peggy,_

 _I love you. Let us begin there, and then work our way forward._

 _I love you so much that the very words "I love you" sound frail and meaningless, and there are none on this earth that will do any better. But you have to understand, my love. I have no choice._

 _I have a home to protect. A country that calls me. The obedience of a subject to his king may seem a strange characteristic to find in me, all things considered, but when His Majesty calls for me, surely you must see I cannot say no._

 _He is giving me the power to secure the freedom of my people. I cannot let that go. And yet I cannot let you go, either. And yet it is too dangerous, too unpredictable, too altogether impossible for you to come. And yet I cannot leave you. And yet—_

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Lafayette threw down his pen with a snarl of frustration and shoved back his chair. It shrieked across the worn floorboards of his flat, which creaked as he stood up and paced to the door. He snatched up his overcoat and swept through the door.

 _Damn writing to hell._

Writing was the only way for a man to organize his thoughts, Alexander always said. Apparently Alexander's thoughts had never been in such a state of disarray as this, a disorder that left Lafayette drowning in a whirlpool of "and yet"s.

He could not send her a letter—the coward's way out, and even that he could not bear. No. He would have to tell her in person.

Just as soon as he decided what it was he had to tell her.

He took the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time, buttoning his overcoat against the January chill as he went. The front room of the boarding-house was dark and silent, save for the light, fluttering snore of the landlady as she dozed in her chair from behind the counter. She did not open her eyes as he paced through the room and spilled out into the street.

Albany, blanketed in the charcoal gray of pre-dawn, was nearly deserted. Lafayette must have misjudged the hour. Unable to do anything but toss and turn from midnight on, he'd thought the night had lasted longer than it had. Buildings still dozed behind closed-eyelid shutters, their lamps doused and their breathing easy. Somewhere overhead, a bird twittered, the echoes dancing from rooftop to rooftop.

Lafayette observed it all with the grim melancholy of a man in a sickroom, saying goodbye to a friend who would not last the night.

How many times over the years had he dreamed of returning to Paris? To see the glittering lights and walk the winding cobbled streets, to hold a conversation without the suspicious sideways glances Americans reserved for foreigners. To speak and be spoken to in his own language.

And the _Assembl_ _é_ _e des Notables…_ Whether a young soldier and notorious revolutionary should rub elbows with the highest, most distinguished gentlemen of France was, he supposed, the subject of some debate. Nevertheless, the opportunity to speak before the king. To make him understand the importance of representative suffrage, of the voice of the people, to bring that voice into rooms where it was not allowed and force space for it…

Even the thought of it sent the blood thrilling through him. The same all-consuming urgency of the early days of the Revolution, all purpose and determination, before the checks and challenges and dangers could rear their inevitable heads. It was always glorious, in the pale light of foresight. And this time, it was for his people. His country. His home.

But Peggy…

He stopped walking where he was and groaned, tilting his head toward the sky. Lafayette could almost feel himself being pulled in two directions—his right arm jerked toward France, his left pulled west, toward the Schuyler manor. Something had to give. He didn't know what. But something.

The idea occurred to him suddenly, so absolutely absurd in its clarity that it startled him into laughter. A madman, anyone in Albany would have thought. Standing in the middle of Mercer Street at four-thirty in the morning, laughing at nothing. But Lafayette no longer cared what the world thought. In that moment, there was only one man whose opinion he valued. Only one man with the proven gift of rationality under fire who could help stop the hurricane rocking Lafayette's brain.

And if that man also happened to be one of the only people guaranteed to be awake at four-thirty on a Saturday morning, well, so much the better.

Not leaving himself time for second-guessing, Lafayette jammed his frozen hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat and set his steps toward the brownstone manor house on the opposite end of town. It was a long walk, but urgency and single-minded purpose made it seem only an instant before he was standing outside the small wrought-iron gate separating the front walk from the main road. Set among what would have been fastidiously trimmed gardens in another season, the manor was now surrounded by two glazed inches of snow and ice.

Lafayette paused at the very end of the path. The nerves had reared their head as quickly as the idea had, and suddenly he found himself petrified of walking forward. The house reminded him so powerfully of the man who inhabited it—strong, classical, unmovable—that he almost imagined its foundations would speak to him.

Nerves made him imaginative, apparently. No call for that, not on top of the rest.

He gave himself until the count of five to compose himself. The snow crunched under his boots, echoing loudly in his ears. Reaching the door, he opened a hand to knock. But even before his knuckles connected, the door swung inward, revealing a glowing golden circle of candlelight and George Washington's smiling face.

"Lafayette! Good morning!" he said, almost irritatingly cheerful for the hour of the morning. "Too early for you ordinarily, I should think. Is everything all right?"

Lafayette let his still-raised fist fall awkwardly back to his side. "Yes, General. Everything is fine."

"Not a general at the moment, my dear boy, thank God. It's peacetime. You can call me George."

Washington's good humor brushed the thinnest layer off Lafayette's unease—though, of course, the only way Lafayette would call General Washington "George" was if the end of times were truly upon them. Washington stepped to the side, indicating with a wave of his arm that Lafayette should enter.

"Quietly now. Martha's still asleep upstairs. I'll have Billy bring tea to the back parlor, where we can talk."

Lafayette stepped into the house, first knocking the snow from his boots, and let Washington close the door behind him.

"You Americans and your tea," he said in a dry undertone, earning a laugh from Washington.

"Yes, well, we did go to war over it," Washington remarked, as he led Lafayette down a long, carpeted hall toward the back of the house.

"If you mean to tell me I nearly gave my life so you could drink your tea at five on a Saturday morning…"

"Oh, for freedom and democracy, too, of course. But I still think it was the tea that tipped the scales in the end."

Lafayette grinned. His nerves persisted still, of course they did, but there was something about Washington's mere presence that made things easier to bear. The general ushered him through an open door into a warm, cheerful parlor, a bright fire already dancing in the hearth. On the low mahogany table in front of the deep blue sofa, a silver tray bearing the accouterments for tea was already laid out. Billy must have been an absolute shadow, to have anticipated Washington's needs so closely.

Still bone-cold from the walk, Lafayette took a chair near the fire. The tingling shock of warmth against his skin called back the grim reminder of another night, when he and Washington had both sought refuge from the winter.

 _No. Not now._ There was more than enough to think of without indulging memories in the bargain.

"Are you back from Philadelphia for good?" he asked, as Washington settled onto the sofa and poured himself a cup of tea.

The older man grimaced. "If only. 'Constitutional Convention' was a generous title. 'Constitutional Marathon' would have been more accurate. God willing, we'll be finished before the spring thaw."

"But you can step away from time to time, it seems."

"Yes, happily. It's so much more peaceful, here with Martha. Away from the strategy, the gamesmanship, your friend Alexander proposing his own system of government for six hours without pausing for breath."

Lafayette winced. "I wish I could say that surprised me."

"But you are too honest a man for that."

Washington regarded him over the rim of his teacup with a searching, evaluating gaze, the one that always made Lafayette both deeply uncomfortable and eager to prove himself worthy of the attention.

"Tell me, then. What are you doing awake at this ungodly hour? Early mornings are for anxious old men. Youth should be asleep."

In that moment, Lafayette's impulsive plan seemed to him unprecedented in its stupidity.

 _You have a decision to make, and what do you do? You wake up your former army commander at five in the morning to ask him vague questions about your romantic future. A brilliant plan._

If Lafayette's father had been alive, he'd have laughed his son out of the parlor. But his father was not alive. The closest thing he had to family now was a handful of querulous uncles across the ocean—and, now, the Schuylers, whose existence was the very reason he found himself in such agonizing need of guidance. But he and Washington had spoken of many things during the war: practical, political, sharply personal. And the general had no sons. And so, perhaps…

"I was wondering, sir, if I might ask your advice."

Washington smiled. "The young approaching the old _asking_ for advice? Truly ours is a brave new world. Go on. Ask. I will consider."

Lafayette leaned forward, focusing his attention on his own hands clasped loosely between his knees. He could still feel Washington's imperiously benevolent gaze taking him in, but knew he could not form these sentences and maintain eye contact at the same time.

"I think you know that I am in love, sir," he began awkwardly.

Washington raised his eyebrows. "My dear marquis, if this is a proposal, I am flattered, and also married."

Lafayette was startled into laughter—doubtless Washington's intention, as the Frenchman found himself much more able to coherently string words together than moments before.

"You recall Peggy Schuyler, sir."

"Schuyler?"

"The blockade runner."

"Ah, yes." Washington nodded. "She was certainly something, that woman."

"Certainly _is_ something, sir," Lafayette said, then did not so much speak the rest of the sentence as hear the words as they spilled out of his own mouth. "I would like to marry her."

One would have been forgiven for thinking Washington truly was Lafayette's natural father, from the way the Virginian's eyes lit up and the speed of the smile crossing his face. He quickly set the teacup to the side and reached over to shake Lafayette vigorously by the hand with the buoyant enthusiasm of a man half his age. Lafayette could not help but grin, even as Washington very nearly detached the younger man's arm from his body.

"Excellent. Truly, truly excellent. You deserve happiness. You more than most, after all this time. Leave our war behind you, and think to the future, and be happy."

"The future," Lafayette interposed, delicately extricating his hand from Washington's grasp, "is why I came for advice. Although I appreciate your blessing, such as it is."

Washington abruptly appeared to remember himself. He sat back in the chair and folded his hands over his stomach, fixing Lafayette with an expression midway between contrition and vicarious enjoyment.

"Blessing bestowed, my boy. Now. I gather there must be some complication, from the way you persist in sighing like a war widow."

Lafayette took a deep breath.

 _Tell him. He is on your side._

And like the frozen nerves keeping him from speaking had melted, the story poured out from him. The message from the king. The _Assembl_ _é_ _e des Notables._ The utter impossibility of bringing Peggy into another brewing revolution, and the equal impossibility of leaving her behind. He did not suggest his remaining in New York instead of returning to France. Washington knew well how much weight that option-that-was-not-an-option held with Lafayette.

He didn't know how long he spoke. Nor did he remember the last time he had spoken so honestly with anyone who wasn't Peggy. The thin veil he always felt separating him from the people around him—a veil built of different histories, of different languages, of the way laughter and comfort and ease always seemed to come more simply to others than they did to him—had fallen away.

Reaching the end, he sheepishly looked up from his hands. The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the slight creaking from above hinting that someone on the second floor had begun their daily business. Washington was watching Lafayette in thoughtful silence. It might have been the very definition of anguish, this long silence after Lafayette had just poured his tempest-tossed soul out onto the parlor rug, but somehow, inexplicably, it was not.

"Do you know what I think?" Washington said at last.

"Would I have asked you if I did?"

Washington chuckled softly. "What I think, my boy, is that as soon as you leave my house, you should ask the lady what she wants to do."

 _As if it were that simple._

"But—"

"But you worry she will say yes out of duty, when she reasonably should say no," Washington interrupted, precluding the argument already forming on Lafayette's lips. "I know. But do you know what else I know? The woman you love is not an idiot."

"Far from it."

"You see? You trust her already to make the right choice. And I think you know what that is."

"I—"

Today, it seemed, was not the day for Lafayette to have any success in finishing sentences.

"Your problem," Washington interrupted again, gesturing with a vague wave of the hand toward Lafayette's person, "your problem is that you have always been afraid of getting what you want."

This time, Lafayette did not even try to begin a sentence. Words were beyond him.

"Yours is a martyr's sense of justice if ever I've seen one, and I've spent enough time in the army to have seen my share. And that's all well and good, my boy. Sacrifice in the name of liberty and justice, well, they write songs about that for a reason. But martyrs are not always the best role models. Not unless you're truly enamored with the idea of coming to a dreadful end."

Washington stood up and arched his back in a lazy stretch; Lafayette instinctively rose as well. For a moment, he thought he was being dismissed. A hot wave of shame rose upward from his chest— _you see, this is what you get for being a fool when you ought to know better_ —but to his surprise, Washington did not show him to the door. Instead, he took both of Lafayette's hands in his own, fixing him with a look the Frenchman did not dare break.

"You told me, when we were camped in Valley Forge," Washington said, "that it was your job to tell me the truth. Do you remember?"

Lafayette nodded. "I do."

"Well. Now it's my turn to tell you the truth. And I tell you now that if you don't go to the lady, say you love her, and ask her to marry you, you will be the greatest fool I have ever had the misfortune to welcome into my parlor. And just last week, John Adams was here for tea."

And Washington pulled Lafayette into a tight embrace—one that did not even surprise him, it felt so natural, so correct. The general, so reassuring, so sympathetic, so present, felt more like a father in this moment than Lafayette's own father had ever done.

The gesture was brief, and in a moment Washington pulled back and clapped Lafayette briskly on the shoulder.

"Was that what you were looking to hear?" he asked.

 _Was it?_ Lafayette couldn't have said what he'd wanted to hear. As far as what he needed to hear, however, Washington had found the perfect words.

Let him ask Peggy, then. Tell her everything. Let them decide together what to do from there. But if he lost Peggy Schuyler's love today, it would not be for lack of trying.

"Thank you, sir," Lafayette said quietly—he did not trust himself to speak more loudly, or the euphoric laugh building in his chest would explode outward, and he would lose all semblance of control. "Thank you."

"At ease, soldier," Washington said gently, leading Lafayette back toward the front door. "For the first time in your damned life, at ease."


	11. A Modest Proposal

ETA: Some lovely reviewers have informed me that I've messed Peggy's full name up like a hundred times in this story. So, um, whoops :) I'm just gonna roll with it now, though, because while it bothers me getting it wrong, it would bother me more having it inconsistent from chapter to chapter. Just another reason why you should not use this story to study for your US history exam.

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XI.

"Peggy. Peggy, wake up."

Angelica might as well have been speaking to a brick wall. Peggy made a soft grumbling sound and pulled the blankets farther up around her ears. Through the thick curtains of her bedroom, late morning sunlight fought to sever the darkness, but within Peggy's nest it might have been the dead of night. Angelica rolled her eyes, then crossed the room to stand half a foot from the bed.

"Peggy," she said, louder.

"Go away."

"Peggy, get up."

"I can't," came Peggy's muffled voice from beneath the blankets. "I'm asleep."

A wicked grin dawned on Angelica's face. "Fair enough. Shall I tell Monsieur Lafayette that he should see himself out, then? Clearly you're too tired to see him."

It took less than a second. The blanket was hurled to the floor. Peggy dove out of bed, her hair an absolute disaster. She fled in her nightdress to the wardrobe, flinging the door open with a wail.

She hadn't seen him for two days. Not since the letter from France had interrupted their intimacy and replaced it with awkward, nervous silences and averted eyes. And now that he'd finally come, she was wearing a nightdress. God in Heaven.

"How long has he been here?" she demanded, yanking out the first dress she could lay hands on.

Angelica smirked and sat on the edge of the bed. "Five minutes? I've been trying to wake you."

Peggy swore. The nightdress sailed across the room to land in a crumpled heap beneath the window.

"Damn. Damn. Damn. Father isn't downstairs, is he?"

"No, you're safe there. If you—"

Before Angelica had time to finish saying the word "hurry," Peggy turned around, fully dressed, and ran her hands backward through her hair. With a vigorous shake of her head, she looked at Angelica and spread her arms wide.

"Well?" she asked. "How do I look?"

Angelica laughed. "Well enough. Considering. Now go on, before your heart explodes."

Without another word, Peggy tore out of the bedroom.

As she descended the stairs, her breakneck pace causing her skirt to stream out in a pool behind her, she realized suddenly she did not even know if Lafayette came with good news or bad. It could easily be bad. He could have come to say goodbye. Could have come with his suitcase in hand, on his way to the harbor. For all she knew, this could be the last time she would ever see him.

But she would not let herself think that way. These were the shadows of a bad dream she hadn't yet shaken off. Nothing more dangerous than that. It couldn't be.

On the last step, skidding around the corner, Peggy felt her feet slip out from under her. _Too fast._ She swore and flailed for the banister, jolting her spine but avoiding the fall. Lafayette, she saw now, stood in the entrance hall. He watched her with his head cocked slightly to the side, a small wry smile at the corner of his mouth.

He still wore his coat. But he did not have a suitcase with him.

"Graceful, as always," he remarked.

She pulled a sarcastic curtsey. "I wasn't expecting you so early in the morning."

Lafayette raised his eyebrows. "It is half past eleven," he reminded her. "I waited as long as I possibly could."

Peggy heard the hint of something unsaid in the angles of his words. Warily, she descended the last stair and stood near him, taking him in. A bright, reckless look in his eyes. Both hands in his pockets. Skin chapped from the cold. Unless she was very much mistaken, the Marquis de Lafayette had not been in bed at all last night.

"Waited to do what?" she asked slowly.

"Peggy," he said—his words came too fast, tripping over one another in their own eagerness to be said. "I do not want you to feel obligated to respond in any way. You may say yes, or you may say no, and I would understand completely in either case, but if I do not ask you, my God, if I do not ask I will never be able to live with myself—"

"Lafayette," she said sharply, a wild hope beginning to rise from with in her.

He skidded to a sudden verbal stop, looked up at her in surprise. "Yes?"

"Ask me the question."

Lafayette flushed, fiddled with something in his pocket. "It is not as easy as the poets make it sound, I, _merde,_ the words, what are the _words_ —"

"Ask me the _question_."

He took a deep breath. She had never seen him so excited, or so in need of a drink.

"Peggy," he began again.

His hand emerged from his pocket. Opened, palm spread out. A white-gold ring, square diamond encircled with sapphires, glittering against his hand. He bent to one knee.

"Peggy Schuyler, will you do me the impossible honor of being my wife?"

She tried to say "yes." She really did. Every part of her brain told her mouth to say "yes." But her mouth, with a mind entirely of its own, forewent words entirely and let out instead a scream like a child. She threw her arms around Lafayette, who rose to his feet to return the embrace, and felt a joy fizzing from the bottom of her heart that defied words and logic and everything. She didn't know if she began the kiss herself or he did. All she knew was that she did not ever want to stop. Did not ever want to let go of this awkward, noble, charming, handsome, kind man, her fiancé, the man who would soon be her husband.

And would not have to. Not ever.

"Was that a yes?" Lafayette murmured softly in her ear.

She laughed, a merry chime like sleigh bells. "Yes, you idiot. Of course."

He kissed her again, more slowly this time, savoring the moment.

She felt her heart contract as the metal band of the ring embraced her finger.

"Did you…did you just have this _lying around_?" she asked incredulously, looking at the ring.

He grinned. "It was my mother's. I could not leave it behind in France."

"And now we'll bring it back to France together."

Likely, she should have been afraid. Peggy, after all, had never left New York, except for a journey with her father to London when she was too young to remember. Maybe she would be afraid, still, later on. Now, with Lafayette's ring on her finger, there was nothing in the world that could frighten her.

"What is going on here?"

The pit dropped out of her stomach. Nothing could frighten her.

Except for this.

Philip Schuyler stood in the doorway to the front parlor. He held his hat in one hand, had one arm into the sleeve of his coat. But at the sight of his daughter and the French soldier embracing in his entrance hall, all thoughts of whatever business would have taken him out of the home fled his mind in an instant. Lafayette looked at Peggy as if he were facing death by firing squad. She looked back at him, the joy in her eyes transforming instantly to accusation.

"You didn't ask him?" she hissed.

He opened his mouth, about to begin a helpless sentence, but Philip Schuyler was not in the mood to wait for him to finish.

"Come here," he said, and pointed into the parlor. His hat, still in his hand, quivered as an indignant signpost.

Lafayette and Peggy shared a glance. Her lips pressed tightly together, she interlaced her fingers in his and led him into the parlor.

She took a seat beside the fireplace, crossing her legs at the ankle beneath the chair. Lafayette stood unmoored at the center of the room, vulnerable as the primary target of Schuyler's ire. He interlaced his fingers behind his back, legs slightly apart in parade rest, waiting for the explosion of verbal gunfire both he and Peggy knew Schuyler was building up to.

Peggy looked at Schuyler. Schuyler looked at Lafayette. Lafayette looked at his feet.

"So," Schuyler said, letting the poison of the syllable fester. "So."

"Sir," Lafayette began. Peggy had never heard his voice quite like this. "I am sure you understand the difficult position I—"

"I'll admit, Monsieur Aristocrat, I didn't think you had this kind of deception in you," Schuyler interrupted. He had not taken a seat either, and held his hat still before him like a sword. "I thought you'd run out on my daughter the moment a wealthier piece of skirt caught your eye. Or you'd make her false promises and then skip out to the Continent to spend your family fortune on drink and women. But this, sir, this, fraternizing in my very _hallway,_ this goes _beyond—_ "

"Sir," Lafayette tried again, but he didn't know how to speak to Philip Schuyler and be heard. Only one person in this room knew how to do that.

"Father," Peggy said sharply. "We weren't _fraternizing._ "

"What would you call it, then, my worldly daughter?" Schuyler snapped.

"Sir," Lafayette said a third time, finding his voice at last. "I have asked your daughter to marry me. And she has accepted."

The room went deathly silent. So silent Peggy heard the slight rustle of Lafayette's coat as he shifted his weight uncomfortably to the opposite leg. Schuyler's eyes narrowed.

"Marry you," he repeated. His voice lacked any identifiable tone. "Marry you. You want my daughter to marry you, so you can leave her when you sail across the ocean in a harebrained, doomed revolution, where you'll be dead in a week and leave her a widow on the other side of the Atlantic—"

"Sir, forgive me," Lafayette interjected—he looked taller now, Peggy realized, a side effect of sudden daring—"but I do have some experience winning harebrained, doomed revolutions."

"And he's not leaving me, Father," Peggy said. "I'm going with him."

She rose from her chair and laced her arm through Lafayette's, a visible show of unity. From this close, she could feel his hand shaking, but he stood straight and met Schuyler's eye. Maybe the Frenchman would be able to siphon some of Peggy's courage through her touch. Suddenly, she felt as though she could do anything. Wrestle a bear. Summon a ghost. Challenge the world.

Schuyler took a step forward, his right hand unconsciously wringing the brim of his hat.

"You're asking my daughter to leave her family and her home and her country, and for what? For you? You think you deserve…"

"I have never thought I deserve her." Lafayette spoke carefully, measuring the hope and consequence of every syllable. Peggy swallowed the words like ambrosia. "She deserves better than me. She deserves everything. I was so ashamed of the life I would be asking her to lead in Paris that I almost did not ask her, would have let her find happiness with someone else here."

"But I would never have let him," Peggy interrupted.

Lafayette gave Schuyler a small, rueful smile. "And, as I am sure you know, sir," he added, "it is very difficult to argue with your daughter."

Schuyler had been listening to this speech with the same deliberately expressionless look, but at this, he gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. The hat, Peggy noticed suddenly, he had set behind him on the arm of the chair.

"Yes," Schuyler said, "I had noticed."

He sat back in the chair, folded his fingers together, and rested them on his belly. A relaxed, comfortable pose, were it not for the icy regard with which he watched them both.

"Is this true, Peggy?" Schuyler asked. "Are you determined to throw away everything for this wild crusader?"

"Father," Peggy reminded him patiently, "we'll be living in Paris, not Hell."

Plainly Schuyler had not missed the tense of Peggy's verbs. _Will be living,_ not _would live._ He sighed deeply, let a moment pass, then two. No one spoke. The clock ticking the seconds on the mantelpiece seemed unbearably loud.

At last, Schuyler sighed. "Monsieur Lafayette," he said, "I think you know that I don't like you."

"You have given me no reason to doubt it, sir," Lafayette answered. Under other circumstances, Peggy would have allowed herself to laugh.

"You're everything we fought against in '76. You're aristocratic. Landed. Titled. Rich. And, worst of all, European."

Peggy groaned. "Father, he fought _on your side,_ " she hissed. Lafayette gently touched her arm, as if to say _let him finish._

"If American boys aren't good enough for my daughters, I weep for my new nation. If I had my choice, I would send you packing for Paris and keep Peggy in New York when she belongs. But—" he said, holding up a finger for emphasis, "but I do not have my choice."

Peggy tightened her grip on Lafayette's hand. Hope. A dangerous feeling, but a difficult one to avoid.

"You love her," Schuyler went on. "So. As well you should. You say you'll take care of her. As you must. And she loves you. So there's that too."

Schuyler sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Lafayette with something that was not quite acceptance, but closer to it than he had ever come.

"If it's my friendship you're looking for, Monsieur Lafayette, you'll never have that. My respect, well, that remains to be seen. My permission…"

He paused, clearly relishing the chance to cultivate a sense of drama. Peggy wanted to take her father by the shoulders and shake him. _Say what you have to say, Father. Yes or no. Say it._

"Yes, my permission you can have."

Peggy felt all the sensation rush from her knees. She rushed forward and threw her arms around a deeply startled Philip Schuyler, who after a moment to compose himself embraced her back.

"Thank you," she said, over and over, for what other words were worth saying? "Thank you."

"Promise you'll write, that's all," Schuyler said gruffly. If Peggy had been paying attention to anything but her own happiness, she might have seen the old general blinking rather more than was usually required. "And see you keep your velveteen courtier in check. See he doesn't run through your dowry in six months and cast you aside."

Peggy pulled back to look at her father, exasperated and amused. "Father, he owns his own chateau," she reminded him. "I doubt he's marrying me for money."

Schuyler summarily ignored her. He hoisted himself from the chair again and faced down Lafayette, imposing still despite the shifted atmosphere of the room.

"And _you_."

"Yes, sir." Lafayette wisely decided not to press his luck into calling Schuyler "father."

"Remember what you told me. My daughter deserves everything. See you manage to stay alive long enough to give it to her."

It was perhaps the most insulting, antagonistic way Peggy had ever heard anyone tell another person to be careful. It was touching, somehow, despite itself.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Schuyler extended a hand, and Lafayette shook it, unable to repress the grin that slowly spread across his face. Peggy could sympathize; she had no doubt she currently sported a similar expression.

It was, she thought, wholly impossible that one woman should be possessed of so much happiness.

#

Alexander looked up from his third beer and glanced over his shoulder. The door to the Cross and Crown opened, admitting Lafayette in a snow-dusted overcoat, Peggy following half a step behind. Alexander shared a meaningful look with Hercules Mulligan, seated on the other side of the table. Mulligan rolled his eyes and faux-retched. Plainly he was not enthused at the idea of what two people so plainly infatuated with one another could do to his evening.

"Well met, Monsieur Lancelot," Alexander said lazily, leaning back in his chair, as Lafayette and Peggy took the two remaining chairs at the table.

"Better met than ever," Lafayette agreed. He reached across the table, took Mulligan's glass of beer, and drained its contents in a single fluid motion. Mulligan began an irritated protest, more indignation than actual words.

Alexander looked at the Frenchman in surprise. He had never seen Lafayette in a mood like this, not even after the British surrender at Chesapeake Bay. It captivated his interest, so much that he did not even notice as Mulligan switched their glasses, giving Alexander the empty one and taking a swig from the full.

"Well?" Alexander asked pointedly. "What's happened? The second coming of Christ, by the way you're smiling?"

Lafayette did not answer. Instead, he glanced across the table at Peggy. She raised her left hand, smiling ear to ear. The ring on her fourth finger caught the tavern candlelight, glittered like a meteor.

Mulligan choked on Alexander's beer.

"May I present," Lafayette said, beaming, "the soon-to-be Margaret du Motier, Marquise de Lafayette."

Alexander grinned. "Like I've always said," he began. "Immigrants—"

He and Lafayette finished the sentence together.

"We get the job done."

Across the table, Alexander and Lafayette high-fived.


	12. The Ambassador

A/N: Remember how I said several chapters ago that this story is a useless study guide for your American History exam? Just wait 'til you find out how much I actually don't know about the French Revolution. I took nine years of French, and until literally yesterday I thought Robespierre and Rousseau were the same person _._ Get ready for an unapologetic oversimplification of history and a whole bunch of me making things up.

To the folks out there who actually know things about history, I'm sorry in advance :)

* * *

XII.

 _20 January 1785_

Peggy nestled against Lafayette, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat sink into her body, the rhythm of her breathing slipping in time with his. The tiny bunk in their cabin aboard the Triton, bound for Brest from Manhattan, had not been designed with intimacy in mind. Lafayette was too tall for it, in any case; he had been forced to curl his legs up into his chest to fit in the narrow space. But Peggy did not mind. They could have bunked together in a bird's nest, she and her hours-old husband, and she would have counted her lodgings among the most luxurious in the world.

She sighed and closed her eyes, letting her mind drift here and there on the ungoverned tide of her thoughts. The cool metal of the ring on her left hand kept her from falling asleep entirely. The wedding band still felt surprising enough that, every time she looked at it, she had to remind herself it was real. In that, she knew she was not alone. She had seen Lafayette steal quick glances at the gold band on his own ring finger more than once, when he thought she was not looking.

Their marriage still felt like an impossibility—only by looking at the tangible proof of their rings could she convince herself it had actually taken place.

Peggy was not the kind of girl who'd dreamed of her wedding day since she was a little girl. None of the Schuyler sisters had. Angelica had played at being a lawyer, calling her younger sisters before an imaginary bench and cross-examining them for hours until the three girls broke courtroom procedure in a fit of giggles. Eliza had been a boundless daydreamer, inventing stories of horses riding through the clouds above Albany, or tiny fairies that crept through the secret passageways of the manor, whispering in the sisters' ears as they slept and spinning dreams out of their words. Peggy had always been outdoors, running races with the servant boys, rolling down hills until her head spun with dizziness and her governess had shouted herself hoarse.

She had hoped she would marry, of course; the alternative was spending the rest of her life at home with her father, which was hardly ideal. But if her wedding day had gone something less than conventionally, it did not unsettle any long-held expectations of the day.

They had been married in Trinity Church, an afternoon wedding. A small ceremony—had to be, by necessity, given the wedding's theme of "chaos, war, and precipitous haste." Peggy's family had been present, Eliza the matron of honor, little Philip fulfilling the duties of ring bearer with grave earnestness. Lafayette's family, of course, was a non-issue, but a crowd of friends—Alexander, Mulligan, Burr, Laurens—had backed him in the church, standing in perfectly for brothers. Lafayette's own father had passed away more than twenty years before, so there was no last-minute man-to-man advice from that quarter. But Peggy had seen, just before she entered the church, George Washington himself lean over to clap Lafayette encouragingly on the back, with a wink and a thumbs-up.

Lafayette, in his military uniform, had been as handsome as any girl dreaming of her future husband could have wished. Peggy had certainly not disappointed anyone, either, in the white full-skirted gown she had managed to scrounge up for the occasion. And then with a kiss, and a few utterly unsurprising cat-calls from the groom's side of the church, and Peggy's father crying entirely more than anyone had expected, it was over.

The wedding finished at two. The Triton set sail from the harbor at three fifteen. Only time to embrace her family, reassure her father one final time that she had no intention of letting Lafayette ruin her financially, and change into something more suitable.

And then here they were, on her wedding night, cramped in this tiny, poorly lit cabin on a ship bound for France, and Peggy could not physically contain any more happiness.

When Lafayette spoke, she felt his words as much as heard them. Close as they were, his speech vibrated through her chest, resonated in her bones.

"When we arrive in Paris," he said, "I promise, I will make sure our marital bed is more…" Wincing, he trailed off in search of the correct word. His cramped posture was, apparently, doing nothing for either his back or his eloquence.

"More human-sized?" Peggy prompted.

"Exactly."

"I don't know," she teased. "I don't mind sleeping in a matchbox. It feels like an adventure. Robinson Crusoe, or something."

He laughed. "I've made many mistakes in my relationship with you, but at least I have not stranded us on a deserted island for thirty years."

"I don't think I'd mind that either."

The Triton shifted slightly, cresting a wave larger than the rest—or, at least, so Peggy told herself, to justify the way she found herself halfway atop Lafayette, who laughed again and kissed her.

"Really?" he asked, grinning. "You think there is room?"

"I'm just being practical," she replied, between kisses. "We take up less space that way."

Lafayette took precious little convincing. The darkened, wave-tossed cabin of the Triton was no one's ideal location for a honeymoon, but he was a soldier, and she was a Schuyler: two groups of people perfectly happy to make the best of things.

"If practical considerations of space spark your interest," he murmured, "will our large bed in Paris be cold, then?"

"Nonsense," she deadpanned. "We can sleep in the broom closet."

Lafayette rolled his eyes—and rolled Peggy onto her back, his kisses equal parts amorous and exasperated. The former quickly took precedence, the heat of their bodies fighting the chill of the cabin, barely above the water.

The Marquis de Lafayette and his new marquise would soon reach the coast of France. The waves in the middle of the Atlantic were high, causing the ship to tilt steeply side to side. But the waves were not the only thing rocking the small bunk in their cabin that night.

#

 _16 February 1785_

When the Triton docked in the French port town of Brest, something was not right.

Peggy clung to Lafayette's arm, his warmth a solid foundation for her to lean on in this unfamiliar town, its cold air alive with the scent of brine and the sparkling scales of gasping fish in rope nets along the dock. Arriving in France itself did not frighten her. The idea of unfamiliar cities and a new way of life was more exciting than alarming. And as for the prospect of living in a nation where few—if any—spoke your language, well, she had seen Lafayette accomplish it for years, and her French was at least as good as his English had been in '76.

No, it was not that. It was the people.

In every shop window, on every streetcorner, lining the docks and the boulevards, the streets of Brest brimmed with people, but not one of them spoke a word to Lafayette or Peggy. The salty air crackled with suspicion, the silence of people who had more to say behind your back than to your face. Each face shadowed, narrow, weary. Each brow darkened. Peggy saw one woman spit at Lafayette's feet, though he pretended not to have noticed.

Nine years Lafayette had dreamed of home. The entire voyage from Manhattan to Brest, he had spoken of Paris almost without pausing for breath. Of course, Peggy thought, he had to know things would be different now. The King of France did not recall his nobility from the four corners of the world for a political council because everything was business as usual. But it alarmed Peggy, how the little she had seen of the country reminded her of staring into the mouth of a cannon.

Knowing the fuse had been lit.

Waiting for the explosion.

When Lafayette smiled at her, it seemed strained. But if he did not feel the need to run, then she would not run either.

"Where are we going?" she asked. They were outdoors, but somehow it still felt appropriate to keep her voice down.

"Our escort is waiting for us at the stables," he replied, his tone resolutely light. "He has arranged for a coach to take us to Paris, and he will appraise us of the situation before we are to appear before the king."

Peggy tripped over nothing. Lafayette steadied her hastily, barely preventing her from falling against the cobblestones.

"When _we_ appear before the king?" she repeated, her voice a rattlesnake's hiss. "You want me to meet the King of France?"

Lafayette cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I thought I had mentioned that."

"You did not."

"I told His Majesty I would return to France immediately after my wedding. The captain of the Triton told me His Majesty eagerly awaits meeting you."

Strictly speaking, Peggy knew this was not Lafayette's fault. One did not speak to kings the way one spoke to other people. Judicious omissions were simply not part of the fabric of conversation. That didn't mean she didn't want to slap him in that moment. Her grip on his elbow tightened until it seemed like she was trying to throttle his arm.

"Lafayette, I speak French like a _six-year-old._ "

"I'll help you," Lafayette said earnestly. "He does not expect brilliant conversation. All he wants is for you to smile and curtsey and tell him _je suis ravie de faire votre connaissance, votre majesté_."

Peggy glowered at him. "And that's what you expect of me here in France? To smile and look pretty and say what you tell me to say?"

Lafayette blanched. "No, I, I only meant…"

"I'm not an ornament you can show to people to win them over—"

"I know that, _ma chérie,_ but the king—"

"The king can hang himself for all I care, I don't—"

"Apologies, monsieur, madame. Am I interrupting something?"

The voice, and its unmistakable Virginian drawl, startled Peggy so badly she very nearly tripped again. To her faint satisfaction, Lafayette had flinched as well. So much for the impeccable reflexes of soldiers.

They turned away from their argument to face the man who had spoken. A tall, rangy man, he stood outside the stables, watching them with a faint smile and a violet waistcoat that was frankly alarming at first glance. Peggy instantly felt strongly about him, but had not yet decided if those feelings were positive or negative.

Lafayette, at least, seemed happy to see the man. Although, to be fair, Peggy rather suspected he would have been happy to see anyone who didn't spit in his face and swear at him.

"Thomas," Lafayette said, and warmly shook the man's hand. "Thank you for meeting us."

"Anything for the hero of the revolution," the man said—his accent spread his vowels in a vaguely insolent way, and Peggy's ambiguous feelings started to lean toward dislike. "And this must be Madame la Marquise."

Peggy's curtsey was something less than thorough.

"The same. And you are?" she asked.

"Forgive me," Lafayette said hastily. "Peggy, this is Thomas Jefferson, the American ambassador to France. He will be our escort to Paris. General Washington highly recommended him."

Jefferson gave a laconic half-bow.

"Mr. Jefferson, my wife, Margaret."

Peggy nodded at the ambassador. If he would not trouble himself to give a full bow at her introduction, she certainly wasn't going to curtsey twice.

"The coach is ready, monsieur. And if you want my advice, I would recommend we leave now. Brest is not a welcoming place to be at the moment."

"I had noticed," Lafayette said grimly.

"Your luggage?" Jefferson asked.

Lafayette shrugged. "My valet will bring it afterward."

"Excellent. Your chariot awaits, madame." Jefferson extended a gallant arm as the coachman opened the side door. Peggy gave Jefferson a withering look, then climbed in by herself, daring him to protest her lack of interest in chivalry.

Lafayette grinned. "You may deal with my wife as you do with me in all things, Thomas," he said. "If not more directly. She is my right hand, as I strive to be hers."

Peggy's earlier irritation with Lafayette flickered, then faded. She shifted across the seat in the coach, making room for her husband to sit beside her. It was difficult to be angry with him when his return home had given him so much of the confident self-assurance she loved in him. And when men like Thomas Jefferson, American ambassador to France, were also there, for comparison's sake.

Not that the business with the king had been forgotten, of course. But there would be time to address that.

"So, Mr. Jefferson," she said, as he sat opposite them and snapped the coach door shut behind him. "What news do you have to share with us?"

The coach lurched into motion, rattling across cobblestones that would soon give way to the smoother dirt roads connecting Brest and Paris. Jefferson leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. Suddenly, he seemed very tired.

"Plenty. And, I'm afraid, little of it good."

"Thomas, do not hold back to spare my feelings," Lafayette said sternly, though Peggy could see he was somewhat shaken. "News does not travel quickly across the ocean, but I have heard of unrest. Riots. I know."

"You know the shadow of what is. And you can't yet imagine what might be," Thomas replied. "Financial ruin, that's in part the worst of it Money worth almost nothing, and its worth still falling. Shortages of food. Prices rising. And for this they blame the nobles. The monarchy. The king."

Lafayette cursed. "And to respond to this, His Majesty calls the Assemblée des Notables? A barely political body without representation of the people? The commons must be furious."

"It's not the course I would have recommended either," Jefferson agreed wryly. "But for a man in my position, it is very difficult to convince His Majesty he's making an incredibly stupid mistake."

"And you think a man in my position would have better luck."

"A man who was actually summoned to attend the Assemblée des Notables, instead of a Virginian in the corner who no one will speak to? Yes. I do think you would have better luck."

"My husband just helped a group of rebels overthrow a king," Peggy interrupted. "Do you still think His Majesty would be inclined to listen?"

Jefferson smirked. "True, your husband ought to be careful how loudly he talks about his American enterprises when he's around the king. Or perhaps you, madame," he added, with a wink, "might use your powers of persuasion to convince—"

"Thomas," Lafayette began, but Peggy interrupted him before he'd finished saying the name.

"Mr. Jefferson," she said sharply, "I would think very carefully before you insinuate what you're about to insinuate, or I will personally break every one of your fingers."

Jefferson drew back slightly, a look of unmasked alarm on his face. Lafayette, from beside Peggy, fought an utterly hopeless battle to keep from dissolving into laughter.

"When I said 'deal directly with my wife,' Thomas," Lafayette managed, "what I should have said was 'my wife will not tolerate your nonsense.'"

"Yes," Jefferson said slowly. "I begin to understand."

"Good." Peggy smiled, thoroughly enjoying how Jefferson still leaned as far back in his seat as he could, as though her smile functioned like the bared teeth of a wolf. "Now, Mr. Jefferson. If you would be so kind as to bring my husband and I fully up to speed on the political climate of the country. If he is to function effectively at the Assemblée next week, you would do well to speak quickly."

Jefferson opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to find the words to break the silence.

Lafayette grinned. "You heard my wife, Thomas. I promise, she does not bite."

"Not often," Peggy corrected.

Jefferson sighed. From his point of view, it was shaping up to be a very long journey to Paris.


	13. Disquieting

XIII.

Brest had been austere, but it was nothing compared to the chill Paris sent through Lafayette's bones. Some of the change, he knew, had to be within him, not the city. He had still been a boy when he'd left the country, and was now a married man upon his return. But still. Paris felt like a volcano, rumbling beneath the soles of his boots. The shouting of agitated voices from the clubs and cafés in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the suspicious glances passing between neighbor and neighbor. This Paris was hungry, and did not care what it fed upon, so long as it was fed.

Lafayette held little love for Jefferson—in his opinion, that much ostentation had no business being contained within one man—but the ambassador's presence filled him with a warm sort of gratitude nevertheless. Lurid waistcoat notwithstanding, Jefferson sauntered through the Parisian streets as if he were the one who had been born there. Perhaps if they spent enough time near one another, he mused, some of Jefferson's unwarranted confidence would rub off on Lafayette.

That was, if Peggy did not have the ambassador murdered first. Judging by the way she shot periodic venomous looks in Jefferson's direction, that was far from being a given.

"Are you staying in town?" Lafayette asked. Not that he cared much; he was more concerned with breaking the tense silence that had descended as the group of three walked in front of the Tuileries. Peggy's interest in the flawlessly manicured hedges and Greek-inspired marble statues might have been genuine, might have been an excuse not to look at the ambassador, might have been both.

Jefferson nodded. "Rue Saint-Jacques, on the left bank. If you need anything. Your audience with the king is tomorrow?"

Lafayette pointedly neglected to address Peggy's small "hmm" of disapproval at this remark. That conversation could wait until they reached home.

"Yes. We will visit you when we return tomorrow, to keep you informed."

"Tomorrow keeps getting better and better," Peggy muttered under her breath. Both Lafayette and Jefferson pretended not to have heard her.

"Here we are," Lafayette said slightly too loudly, and stopped walking. They were in fact still three blocks from the house, but there was no reason for Jefferson to know that. The sooner this meeting could be over, the more likely it would end without bloodshed. "Thank you again for the escort, Ambassador. We will be in touch."

"Certainly. Monsieur. Madame."

Jefferson bowed low enough his knee nearly touched his forehead. He looked like he was about to offer to kiss Peggy's hand, but she gave him such a foreboding look that he contented himself with a bow instead. Jefferson swaggered off into the streets, a speck of violent violet soon lost to view.

Peggy grimaced. "Odious little man, isn't he?"

Lafayette laughed, leading her further down the Rue de Rivoli. "You might have been a little more polite, love. He _is_ your ambassador, after all."

"He could be the ambassador from the pits of Hell, for all I care to speak with him," she shot back—but he knew the tone in her voice. Her ire was eighty percent a coping mechanism, meant simply to give her something else to think about besides the grim silence of the city, the looming audience with the king. He could sympathize. Certainly her outbursts of rudeness were less stifling than his own strategy: a silent, unspoken anxiety that rose up from the pit of his stomach and threatened to cut off the breath from his lungs.

"Next time I'll make sure Lucifer himself meets us at the harbor," Lafayette replied, as flippantly as he could. "No more dealing with middle men."

Peggy laughed. It surprised him, how badly he'd needed to hear her laugh.

"Are we here?" she asked, looking at the row of houses lined with narrowly trimmed hedges in front of which Lafayette had stopped.

He nodded. "My home in Paris. Don't tell your father I don't own a chateau in the city. My influence has limits."

She shrugged. "I'll tell him we stayed in Notre-Dame with eight hundred servants. It will suit his mental picture of you perfectly."

He led her up the short path toward the door. With every inch closer they drew, a wild, irrepressible sort of hope swelled within his chest. His country was changed, his future uncertain, but within these four walls, perhaps, the Paris he thought he'd known might still exist. Peggy at his side, he reached into the pocket of his long navy-blue coat and unearthed a small silver key. The door opened smoothly at his touch, and he ushered Peggy into the hall.

The house, to his surprise, was neither empty nor dark. The entrance hall gleaned with light, the glare from the lamps glittering off the dark wooden floors polished to a shine. The curtains had been thrown back, admitting what light remained on the winter afternoon. In the parlor off the main hall, the sound of a crackling fire drifted toward him, a cloud of warmth that brushed aside the chill of the streets.

And with a gasp and an exclamation Lafayette could not have spelled with a gun to his head, a woman of fifty or sixty, hair at the midpoint between black and gray, wearing an out-of-fashion striped gown, hastened in from an adjoining room and seized Lafayette in an embrace that may have cracked one or two ribs. Once his surprise ebbed and he regained his wind, Lafayette laughed and embraced her in turn, the feeling of hope settling into comfortable satisfaction.

" _Monsieur Lafayette, que ça fait vraiment trop longtemps! Et que vous avez grandi!"_ she exclaimed, breaking the embrace to pull back and look at him appraisingly.

"I didn't expect to see you away from Chavaniac," he said, switching to English for Peggy's benefit.

The woman clicked her tongue and shook her head in reprobation. "And leave you to run this house by yourself?" she asked in heavily accented English. " _S'il vous plait, monsieur,_ do not think me so lax in my duties. If I left you alone, you'd be living like a disgusting bachelor within two weeks."

Lafayette laughed; her irritation sounded so like Peggy's assessment of his New York apartment that he wondered if they'd compared notes.

"But you forget, I'm not a bachelor any longer," he said, stepping to the side to emphasize Peggy's presence.

Peggy gave a small, vaguely uncomfortable wave—her utter bewilderment about the strange woman in Lafayette's home could be imagined. Lafayette began to launch into introductions, but he was too slow on the draw.

"And you must be Madame la Marquise!" the woman interjected, cutting him off before he could begin. "Lafayette has written to me about you constantly, but his words have hardly done you justice."

Peggy smiled. "Odd. He usually tends to sell me a little too strongly."

"I knew I would like you, madame. I knew Lafayette has excellent taste, and would choose someone I could respect. My name is Catherine, madame. Catherine Fauré. Monsieur le Marquis' housekeeper."

Lafayette snorted—whatever changes Catherine had undergone in the years he'd been away, learning how to make convincingly self-deprecating remarks had apparently not been an object of her study.

"'Housekeeper'?" he repeated. "Please. Humility doesn't become you. Don't try it."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Catherine replied smoothly, true to form. "Men write speeches in praise of my humility from here to Calais."

"Catherine raised me herself, after my mother's death," Lafayette added, to Peggy. "Despite her foul mouth and taste for gin, she is a sort of second mother to me."

Catherine scowled and swatted Lafayette on the shoulder. "May a woman not have any secrets?"

He grinned. "Unless you've changed dramatically since the last time we spoke, I don't think either of those things would have remained a secret for long."

Catherine flung out one arm in Lafayette's general direction, as if the full expanse of her armspan was needed to express the magnitude of her exasperation. "You see how he slanders me, madame?" she said to Peggy.

"In the vilest of terms," Peggy agreed—it had taken her a grand total of two minutes to warm to Catherine. "You see why I never take my husband at his word. Unless he's complimenting me, in which case I trust him implicitly."

Catherine tapped the side of her nose with a conspiratorial wink. "You'll be a perfect wife for him, I can see. Keep him from forgetting his place."

Lafayette turned his eyes toward the ceiling and sighed. "Something tells me I've just walked into a very dangerous situation," he said drily.

Catherine grinned. "You could use a little danger. It keeps a man honest. Come, madame," she said, taking Peggy by the arm. "I'll draw you a hot bath, and you'll forget all about the dreadful chill outside. Supper will be on the table by seven."

And, still chatting among themselves, Catherine and Peggy swept up the staircase and out of sight. Lafayette was left standing in the entrance hall, snow dusting his boots, still wearing his coat.

 _Housekeeper, indeed._

"I've known you almost thirty years!" he called up the stairs, gesturing uselessly at his coat. "You've known her four minutes!"

"They were a very pleasant four minutes," Catherine called back.

He sighed and shook his head, easing himself out of his own coat and boots. Apparently his fears that Peggy would find it difficult to adapt to Paris had been unfounded, he thought. Now all he had to worry about was a domestic coup.

Well, not all, he reminded himself, crossing to the parlor and slouching in an armchair near the fire. His eyes gradually slipped out of focus, half-watching the flames dance in the hearth. He hadn't realized how tired, how tense he was until they'd finished their journey, and Thomas Jefferson's gadfly presence had stopped flitting about over his shoulder. Given silence and room to spread out, his exhaustion expanded like a noxious gas, curling outward to fill the space available.

The king. He would have to see the king tomorrow, and begin the Assemblée's proceedings on Friday.

Not that he was the least bit concerned on Peggy's behalf. She was fully capable of performing admirably in front of anyone, up to and including the monarchy of France. It wasn't even his own habitual ineloquence that disconcerted him. Alexander had taught Lafayette more than Casanovan tips on how to seduce women—not that he'd ever willingly speak for six hours in front of a rapt audience, not that he would relish speaking in front of any size crowd under any circumstances, but he could do it.

There was just so much at stake. Paris had devolved into a city under siege, with no visible enemy but itself. If Lafayette's call for general sovereignty, for the Estates-General, for a new constitution, if that were to fail…

But it would not fail. It could not. He would not let it.

God willing, something would happen at the Assemblée des Notables beginning on Friday. Something to change the course they were now setting. If not—not to put too melodramatic a point on it, but the phrase flashed truthfully through his mind regardless—if not, France was on a path straight to hell.

#

"You were right," Peggy said, stretching luxuriously across the mattress in the master bedroom, taking up as much space as she physically could. "This is a much bigger bed."

Lafayette, returning after having doused the light, smiled thinly. The warm blankets were heaven compared to the freezing wooden floor against his bare feet, but somehow he could not feel warm.

"When will you learn, dear, that when I make a promise, I intend to keep it?" he asked. "Move."

Even through the dark, he could imagine her scowl as she scooted over to her side of the bed, giving him room to join her.

"Catherine is delightful," she said. "I think she and I will get on well together after Friday, when you're at the Assemblée."

He didn't answer. Through supper with Peggy and Catherine, through the arrival of their luggage and the small domestic hurricane that accompanied it, it had almost felt like home. As if tomorrow and the next day would never come. He had managed to snatch a few beautiful hours of forgetfulness. But as evening turned to night, thoughtfulness came with the lengthening shadows. And now she had mentioned it. Now he could no longer pretend.

"Lafayette?" she asked, when he did not respond. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

She sighed, and then suddenly the space beside him in bed was cold again as she got up and relit the lamp. It wasn't the first time he'd had cause to notice how impossibly beautiful she was at night. Even through his reverie, he could not ignore the sparkle of her hair, her bold eyes against the white of her nightgown. Nor was it the first time he'd had cause to see that look in her eyes. The determined look, the one that would accept neither evasion nor changing of the subject.

He sat up, drawing the blanket up to his hips. Elbows resting on his knees, he looked aimlessly at the backs of his hands. Peggy sat in bed again beside him, laying one hand on his shoulder as much in expectation as in comfort.

"We've been married two weeks and already you're keeping secrets from me?" she said, only half-joking. "I'd hoped we could at least make honesty last a month."

He persisted in avoiding her eyes. "I don't want to worry you."

Lafayette flinched, not in discomfort but in surprise. Peggy had cupped one hand beneath his chin and lifted up his head, leaving him no choice but to meet her eyes. She was smiling. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. Without that smile, he knew, he would have been lost long ago.

"I'm your wife," she said. "It's your job to worry me, as it's mine to worry you. And I promise I'll give you enough to worry about as time goes on, so you might as well get a head start while you've got the chance."

He shook his head, ruefully acknowledging the truth in this. How was it possible he'd not only found a woman like Peggy, but she was willing to marry him? It defied logic. A stroke of fortune best left unexplored for now.

"I'm afraid," he admitted, softly.

"Of what?"

"Of what happens if it goes wrong. So much depends on this. Everything depends on this."

"I know," she agreed. "I walked through these streets same as you, and I'm not stupid. I know something big is coming. All you can do is try your best to make sure it's the right kind of something."

She made it sound so simple. And in a way, he supposed, it was. All he had to do was everything he possibly could. But what if everything he possibly could wasn't enough?

As if she'd read his thoughts, Peggy kissed him gently on the cheek, then added with a shrug, "After all, you mobilized the entire French navy from a thousand miles away. How hard can this be?"

"That was different. Any red-blooded Frenchman would give his right arm for a chance to spit in the eye of England."

"Well, you know your audience, at least. Now, for the more important question," she said, and looked at him severely. "What are you going to wear?"

He blinked. "Wear?"

"Of course. It's the King and Queen of France. You can't very well turn up in what you wore traveling to get here. Have all your clothes arrived from Brest?"

It seemed, to Lafayette, as if Peggy were speaking Chinese. He'd focused so narrowly on the political underpinnings of his audience that the pageantry of the affair had completely slipped his mind. He sighed. More proof that he was bound to botch the thing within the first five minutes. Had Peggy not brought it up, he would probably have showed up in his Continental Army uniform and caused some kind of international incident.

"Yes. But you know I'm hopeless with clothes."

"I know you are," she agreed, so quickly he might have been offended had the truth not been so palpable. "I'll help you. First thing in the morning. Something not ostentatious enough to compete with the king, but not so plain it looks like an insult. Now," she added, and kissed him warmly on the cheek, "go to bed. It's late. You're tired. I'm tired."

He nodded, and rose to turn off the light again.

"There'll be plenty of time to worry in the morning," Peggy said, just as he doused the light and plunged the room into darkness.

A reassuring idea, he thought, in its own way.


	14. No More Status Quo

XIV.

 _21 February 1785, Versailles_

" _Monsieur le marquis de Lafayette, et sa femme la marquise."_

The majordomo's voice rang through the hall, carrying to every corner of the long, opulent room. It ricocheted off the chandeliers dripping cut crystal from the high ceiling, coming to rest in the thick gold damask of the curtains. Lafayette extended his arm, and Peggy took it, though neither of them turned to look at each other. Peggy had not been raised in France, but even she knew enough not to look away from the couple seated side-by-side at the far end of the hall, dressed in cream-colored satin trimmed with ermine and embroidered with silver.

 _Thank God Lafayette listened to me about his clothes,_ Peggy thought, tightening her grip reassuringly on his arm. He looked perfect in his deep blue waistcoat, and her sky-blue gown had been chosen to match. Expensive enough to avoid disrespect, but nothing to risk outshining Louis XVI, King of France, and his Austrian queen Marie-Antoinette—both of whom were now watching the couple with an emotion Peggy couldn't identify.

Lafayette bowed low, straight-backed, one leg behind the other. The kind of courtly bow Peggy had never seen him use, not in the less-regimented world of American politics, where form was not everything. Peggy curtsied deeply. Her knees trembled with each moment she held it. Somehow, she suspected the king and queen knew it, and were testing her on purpose.

"Your majesties," Lafayette murmured.

At last, the king spoke. "Monsieur and Madame de Lafayette. Kind of you to come."

Suspicion, Peggy suddenly realized. The emotion she couldn't identify was suspicion.

Lafayette and Peggy stood straight, for the first time taking the opportunity to look at the king directly. Lafayette had seen them before, of course, in his youth, but Peggy was staring despite herself—although, of course, anyone who dressed as the Bourbons dressed, and who commanded as much attention as the Bourbons commanded, must have expected a certain amount of staring. The king, perhaps ten years older than Lafayette, was a wiry, almost feminine-looking man, with dark, mournful eyes and a smile that, when he turned it on Peggy, somehow looked equal parts sincere and mocking.

And the queen. Of course, the queen.

Striking, for lack of a better word. Six inches taller than her husband, proud-profiled and straight-backed, she looked down at Peggy and Lafayette with the kind of disdain usually reserved for insects or stray dogs. Peggy had expected that, of course. Jefferson had taken care to warn them of the queen's personal opinions about Lafayette's American exploits.

Wry suspicion was hardly the ideal mood for a royal audience, but it was a step above pure loathing, and so Lafayette appealed first to the king. Peggy had upbraided Lafayette for suggesting she remain silent and smile, but in the moment she was deeply glad for the opportunity.

"I only regret I could not be here sooner, your majesty," Lafayette said. "I thank you for your patience as I made the journey from New York."

"Of course," the queen cut in. "We are flattered you found a break in your schedule of toppling monarchies and slaying royalists to respond to your own king's commands."

Lafayette paused, mouth slightly open. Peggy could not blame him; what exactly was the right response to a remark like that? The silence stretched a beat longer than was comfortable. For the first time, Lafayette glanced at his wife.

 _Dammit._

Peggy nodded and took a deep breath, praying that her French would hold its own. She smiled brightly at the queen, the same smile she'd given to Thomas Jefferson the day before. Utterly undistinguishable from a genuine smile, unless you knew her as Lafayette did, in which case the insincerity could not have been clearer.

"I'm afraid I must take responsibility for my husband's delay, your majesty," she said—the gods of bilingualism had heard her prayers, and though her accent was shaky, her words were sure. "I did keep him several years after he intended to return. I flatter myself in thinking the time was not ill spent, however."

The queen may have smiled, may have smirked. It was profoundly difficult to tell the difference.

"You must be Margaret Schuyler, the new marquise de Lafayette," she said. Peggy decided it would be inappropriate to remind her that the majordomo had announced her not three minutes before. "Ambassador Jefferson spoke most highly of you and your family. Though Ambassador Jefferson has the habit of speaking highly of most things."

Peggy curtsied, generously choosing to address the compliment and overlook the insult. "He was certainly effusive in your praises, your majesties. But in that respect his words seem to have come up short."

The king gave a small _hmm_ of approval. "Well, Lafayette. We confess we were skeptical when we heard you had married an American, but now that we see her in person, your decision is less bewildering."

 _"Less bewildering." A skill for delivering compliments is, apparently, not a prerequisite for the monarchy._

Lafayette bowed. "She is nearly as dear to me as your own royal selves, your majesty."

Peggy kept her expression flat, but had they been alone, she would have asked Lafayette if that weren't laying it on a bit thick. The queen seemed to share Peggy's assessment. She raised a single delicate eyebrow, but Lafayette had been more concerned with the king's reaction. Louis graced the marquis with a small, slightly sad smile.

"We can well believe that. We wish you and your new bride happiness."

"We thank you, your majesty," Lafayette replied, "and will make our gratitude well known to you through our faithful service in the time to come."

If Lafayette could not feel Peggy's skepticism positively radiating from her person, he was not paying attention. But then, Peggy reasoned, she was not experienced with royalty. The closest thing to a king she had ever encountered in America was General Washington, and a man with less patience for formality or flattery she had never met. Louis did not work like a Washington, or even an Aaron Burr, who fed on flattery like a hungry wolf. Louis swallowed praise like a serpent swallows a bird's egg: whole, with no regard for what lived beneath the smooth surface.

It was, perhaps, a sign of the tense times sweeping France that Louis accepted the heavy-handed compliment with his first genuine smile. "We do well believe it," he said.

Louis had to be using the royal "we," as the queen made it clear she did not believe it in the slightest.

"You are prepared for the coming assembly, monsieur le marquis?" the king went on.

"Of course, your majesty," Lafayette agreed. "I have been giving the matter my full and undivided attention."

"A kind thing for a new husband to say," the queen remarked. "Perhaps that is to be expected in a man of politics. _Patrie_ first, _amour_ a distant second."

Lafayette flushed slightly—the king flushed deeper. Considering how long it had taken Louis and Marie-Antoinette to generate an heir, and the cruel rumors of the king's potential impotency that had swept Paris in the meantime, Peggy could hardly blame the king for his discomfort. In a last-ditch effort to dispel the awkwardness, Peggy cut in.

"The most remarkable thing about men of politics, your majesty, is that they seem to be brilliantly adept at giving more than one thing their full and undivided attention."

The queen laughed. "Quite. I imagine at the moment, your revolutionary husband is giving his full and undivided attention to our protection, as well as how to separate my husband's head from his shoulders."

The pit of Peggy's stomach turned to ice.

"Majesty—" Lafayette began, horrified.

Already too late. Already they would not listen to him. Already his influence was nearly useless. Already the gulf between royalist and revolutionary was yawning wider, with no space left for moderates to straddle the gap. Peggy gripped her husband's arm still tighter, willing him to think of something brilliant to say—her own courtly conversation would not save them here.

But the king interrupted, an unprecedented note of authority in his voice.

"Monsieur le marquis de Lafayette has served our interests faithfully," he said. "He has weakened England's hold in the west. He has secured us a powerful new ally in the new nation of America—with which, need we remind you, our territory of Louisiana shares a border. He remains as committed to a strong, unified France as we are, however unorthodox his methods. And," he added sharply, looking directly at Lafayette, "we trust we can rely on you to prove the truth of our assessment at the assembly, monsieur."

Lafayette bowed low. "Of course, your majesty. I am yours to command in all things."

"Excellent. Remember that. We will speak further of this at a later date."

The king had not exactly said "Get out of my sight before I change my mind about your value and have you hanged," but Lafayette had been at court enough—and Peggy had enough brains in her head—to read between the lines.

"Yes, your majesty," Lafayette said. He bowed to the queen, who gave no indication that she had noticed.

And then he and Peggy politely backed from the room, and the majordomo shut the door behind them, leaving them alone in the hallway. Still blinding in its richness, with countless mirrors and gold trim and floors tiled in swirling mosaics. But dulled now, filtered through a veil of heart-pounding fear that still would not fade.

Ignoring all the rules of polite behavior, Lafayette sank to the ground to sit where he stood, leaning his back against the baroque wallpaper. Peggy crouched beside him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I think I am about to be sick," he croaked.

"Please don't be sick here," she said, as flippantly as she could. "I don't think we can afford to have the marble cleaned."

Satisfied he was not going to die on the spot, Peggy extended a hand and pulled Lafayette to his feet.

"I thought they were going to have me hanged from the chandelier for a traitor," he said.

"Well, all the more reason not to linger," Peggy said briskly, heading for the door.

#

 _20 June 1789, London_

Peggy shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying to find a position that would not result in her corset stabbing her directly between the ribs. The experiment was a rousing failure. She sighed and, silently, cursed London's obsession with fashion. It would be the death of her before the week was out. At least in Paris, the women had other things to think about besides getting one's waist the approximate circumference of a tea saucer.

Angelica grinned at Peggy from across the table, in the gold-accented dining room in Whitechapel where she and her husband John had met Peggy for tea.

 _Tea. What was the point of fighting a revolution if we're still going to meet each other for scones in posh London tearooms?_

John was paying, though. Out of politeness, she decided to keep the remark to herself.

"I'm surprised your husband let you come to London for two weeks," Angelica remarked.

"What do you mean?"

"Only that, I mean, well, in the scheme of things you're still a newlywed, aren't you?"

Peggy took a sip of tea—any more and she was worried the corset would spring a leak. "It's not as if we were married yesterday."

"Is that all the time it takes to wear out a French husband?" Angelica shot back. "Clearly their reputation as master lovemakers has been an elaborate conspiracy all along."

John suddenly feigned choking on a mouthful of tea and excused himself from the table. Peggy and Angelica's laughter nipped at his heels like hounds.

"Does your husband even take you to bed?" Peggy teased. "Or is it a firm handshake and then goodnight?"

Angelica clicked her tongue, a subdued chastisement. "Worry about your own bedroom, dear. If Lafayette is sending you away to London for two weeks, I'll bet you a hundred pounds he's found himself a mistress."

"Tell John you owe me a hundred pounds," Peggy said cheerfully, helping herself to another thick slice of cinnamon tea cake. A reckless challenge to the stability of her corset, and a turncoat traitor's way to have an afternoon meal on top of that, but she'd be damned if she would let cake this good go to waste. "He's been locked away with politics for the past year, it seems like. Dawn to past dark, every day. Sometimes he even sleeps at the Palais de Justice."

"Is that what he tells you?"

"That's what he _does._ So unless he's having an affair with the boy who cleans the fireplaces at the Palais, I think I'm safe."

"Well," Angelica said, almost as an aside, "you never can tell with Frenchmen."

Peggy ignored her. "I told him I'd be happy to stay with Catherine, his housekeeper, that I wouldn't mind only seeing him Sundays. But I think he feels guilty, leaving me alone so often. He said this might be the easiest time for me to visit you in London without him, and I think he's right."

"Why without him?" John asked, returning to the table now that the conversation no longer threatened any improper surprises. "Is that a French custom, sending one's wife overseas without a chaperone?"

"No," Angelica interrupted, before Peggy even needed to shoot back an irate reply. "That's a custom for people who trust their wives."

Peggy cut in, finding herself in the surprising position of smoothing over a rift between her eldest sister and the British brother-in-law she was quickly discovering she couldn't stand.

"Anyway," she said, "I don't think my husband, hero of the American Revolution, would feel too welcome walking into a London tearoom."

Given the way John inhaled sharply and looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard her, Peggy was inclined to believe she'd been right.

"What politics is he up to, then, the marquis?" John asked. "Does he share any of those details with you, or—"

"My husband trusts me deeply with his political affairs," Peggy said sharply.

Angelica took a sip of tea that, if sips of tea could speak, would have said "I told you so."

"He and Mr. Jefferson worked out of our house before the king agreed to call the Estates-General earlier this year. My husband's idea," Peggy added, making no effort to hide how much she enjoyed knowing more about the current state of international politics than John. "Bringing together the clergy, the nobility, and the commons, to negotiate a new constitution that speaks to the needs of all three. It's delicate work, but my husband has never been afraid of negotiation."

"No," Angelica agreed, grinning. "If he talked Father into letting him marry you, I imagine the whole of France won't be much of a problem. You say you've worked with Mr. Jefferson? How do you like him?"

Peggy's facial expression must have said quite a bit more than she'd intended, judging by the way Angelica burst into laughter that turned more than one head at the surrounding tables.

"Oh, I hope you give him that look at least twenty times a day. He does so deserve it."

Peggy looked sheepishly down at her teacup. "I, er, may have called him an epicurean peacock with more lace on his cuffs than brains in his head."

Angelica's laughter became even harder to repress, until more patrons of the tearoom began to glance at her, then exchange looks of deep disapprobation with their tablemates over the rims of their cups.

"I miss you so much, Peggy," she managed at last. "You were always the best of us at telling the truth."

She hadn't realized, not until she found herself in her sister's company again, how much she missed them too. Catherine was an impeccable companion, and had taught Peggy plenty about how to navigate Paris. What streets to explore, which to avoid, how to hold one's gin, which ladies in the neighborhood were worth engaging in conversation or inviting for supper. But there was nothing like the bond between the Schuyler sisters, nothing like it in the world, and she hadn't known it fully until she'd lost it. Peggy wondered, briefly, what Eliza was doing—her letters had flagged over the past several months. Hopefully her marriage was stronger and less irritating than Angelica's. If not, Peggy thought, Alexander would have plenty to answer for.

"You were quick enough to praise Jefferson's Declaration of Independence, as I recall," John said shortly—Peggy wondered if this were an observation or a political accusation.

"Was I?" Angelica asked airily. "I remember having a few rather pointed critiques to make of it. Next time you see that man, Peggy, remind him that his next declaration might as well mention women _somewhere_ in the text. To be thorough."

"I'll bring it up," Peggy agreed, then glanced over her shoulder at the smart-waistcoated server who had just appeared at her elbow. "Thank you, I think we're well taken care of," she began, but the man bowed apologetically. Suddenly, she noticed he held a crisply folded piece of paper in one hand.

"Forgive me, mum, but are you the marquise de Lafayette?" he asked. His thick South London accent mangled the name so badly Peggy rather suspected him of having done it on purpose.

"Yes," she agreed, and gestured at the paper. "Has there been a message for me?"

"Yes, mum. The messenger was told to wait for a reply, if you care to send one. He is in the lobby."

"Thank you," she said.

She took the page—and then paid the messenger no more attention. He might have grown wings and flown away for all she knew. She had seen the name on the front of the folded page, and recognized the handwriting.

Lafayette's. There could be no doubt.

But not his usual precise, elegant script, the one that had carefully composed letters to her spanning the length of an entire revolution. This script was erratic, the ink blotted. Whatever message he had sent her, it had been written in haste, even in panic.

With John and Angelica watching her warily from the other side of the table, Peggy broke the seal and read the letter, devouring every word.

 _Peggy,_

 _The Estates-General have splintered. The Third Estate and nobles sympathetic to the cause of the people have barricaded ourselves in a tennis court and will not leave the building until the king swears to ratify a constitution put forth by the people._

 _It is happening, Peggy. It is happening today. I love you._

What followed might have been Lafayette's signature, but in his excitement all the letters had run together until it could have been any name at all.

Peggy shoved back her chair so quickly a ripple of heads turning in her direction swept the tearoom. Angelica half-rose, eyes sparkling with concern.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

Was everything all right? Impossible to say with any measure of confidence. A match lit to gunpowder might loose the shot that saved ten thousand lives. It might cause the cannon to misfire and explode in the gunman's face. All she knew from the scrawled lines sent from Paris was that something had been put into motion. Something that had been part of her life, real or imagined, since the first night she had met Lafayette, at Eliza's wedding that snowy night in Albany. Something that could not be undone. Whatever happened next, she had to be by his side, to play her part in a world turned upside-down.

"Revolution," she said simply, holding up the page.

Angelica nodded. She had already seen one sister married to a political firebrand who would take death before inaction, and Peggy was by nature more likely to rush headlong into a dangerous idea than most people. Angelica knew it was no good arguing, that logical, reasoned explanations about the risks were a waste of the breath it took to make them. Instead—and flagrantly ignoring the conservative splutter coming from John's side of the table—she nodded, then crossed to hug her sister close.

"Promise me you'll stay safe," Angelica murmured. "Both of you. And promise you'll write."

Peggy nodded. Then she turned on her heel and bolted out of the tearoom, scandalized looks and corsets be damned.


	15. Ink and Blood

XV.

 _27 June 1789, Paris_

Lafayette snatched the paper out from under Jefferson's nose, quickly scanning the words. Unsurprisingly, the ambassador had not taken down exactly what Lafayette had dictated, not verbatim. But then, if Jefferson hadn't done some sort of editorializing, Lafayette would have been concerned for the man's health. He scribbled out a phrase, made a slight emendation, and passed it back to Jefferson. The Virginian read the edit, then gave a small grunt of approval.

"Good idea," Jefferson said, with a small nod. Both men spoke French, Lafayette's effusion of enthusiasm not leaving him the mental energy to translate.

"I know it is a good idea. That's why I wrote it down."

Jefferson pushed away from the long wooden dining table in Lafayette's parlor. He leaned his lanky body back in the chair, folding his long-fingered hands behind his head. "I'll make a fresh copy," he said. "But it's good. Very good. Better than what they asked for."

Lafayette grinned, suddenly feeling a wild flash of adrenaline, like a reckless schoolboy skipping class in the middle of the afternoon. It was a step. A decisive step. One that thrilled him in the making of it.

"It's perfect," he said. "You do have a knack for writing declarations, ambassador."

Jefferson grinned. "It's my _raison d'etre,_ as your people say."

"Let's hope my people do say that, once they have read this."

"What do you think Monsieur Danton will have to say, when you read this aloud in front of the National Assembly?" Jefferson asked—no doubt on purpose, to get a rise out of Lafayette.

If that had in fact been his purpose, it was a resounding success. Lafayette scowled, as if Jefferson had just asked him to pick up a slug with his bare hands. Jefferson laughed—frankly, Lafayette did not see what was funny. It was a relief, in any case, to throw off the veneer of politeness and politics that had blunted the edges of his words all week.

"Don't talk to me about Danton," Lafayette muttered. "Bloodthirsty butcher. Building a revolution is delicate. It takes a scalpel, and he's trying to do it with a cannon. And his flighty little minion Desmoulins is no better."

"What, Camille?" Jefferson asked wryly. "You can't possibly hold a grudge against Camille Desmoulins. Christ, the boy looks like he wakes up every morning and apologizes to his own shadow for inconveniencing it."

Lafayette paused, thinking of the pair of Parisians who had stood beside him at the Estates-General. Thought of the tall, thundering Danton with his scarred face and voice like a bellowing ox, of Camille Desmoulins with his hummingbird-hollow bones and wide dark eyes. Thought of the mismatched pair of them standing side-by-side in the tennis courts where the Estates-General had transformed into the revolutionary body of the National Assembly, how the sheer force of Danton and Desmoulins' speech had carried the day, encouraged the rolling tide to continue rolling. Well enough, while they had a goal in mind to the benefit of France. But how long would their goals tend in that direction?

"Don't be fooled," Lafayette said wryly. "A pair of jackals, the both of them. Jackals with human faces."

"A barely human face, in Danton's case," Jefferson added laconically.

Lafayette pretended not to have heard. The violent leanings of Georges-Jacques Danton's policies were what concerned him, not the composition of the man's face.

"I hate him," Lafayette said.

Jefferson's face registered a complete and utter lack of surprise. " _He_ hates _you_."

"Does he?" Lafayette asked, voice dripping sarcasm. "I thought he called me a son of a whore in a rather amiable tone."

Jefferson chuckled. "In front of the whole Assembly, too. I don't like the man either, Lafayette, but you have to admit, he's got style."

Lafayette was prepared to admit nothing of the sort. Fortunately, he was spared the necessity of having to do so. The sound of a key in the front door cut through the otherwise total silence of Lafayette's parlor, causing both the marquis and the ambassador's heads to turn. Soon after, a pair of voices followed the sound of the key.

"The gentlemen are working in the parlor, Madame," Lafayette heard Catherine say. "I expect they'll be at it for some time. In for an inch, these days, in for a mile. If you'd like to go upstairs and lie down after your journey, I—"

"No, thank you."

Jefferson raised an eyebrow lazily, smirking at Lafayette. Plainly he had noticed the way Lafayette's eyes lit up at the sound of his wife's voice. Well, let him poke fun, if he wanted. It wasn't Lafayette's fault that the Virginian was an eternal bachelor, and would never feel the small thrill of a wife returning after a several-weeks absence.

"I'm not tired," said Peggy's voice, coming closer. "I'll check on my husband myself. If I need anything else, I will call for you."

"Very good, Madame."

Lafayette could just see Catherine shaking her head in irritated disapproval. In a moment, she'd be off toward her own chamber, to open a bottle of sherry and bemoan the way her mistress and master both insisted on working to the point of death. The imagining was cut abruptly short, however, as Peggy burst into the parlor, still wearing her coat and boots, the London air barely clear from her lungs.

She shrugged off her coat and threw it across the far end of the table, just as Lafayette stood up and swept her up in his arms. Possessed by a wild blast of boyish energy, he swung her in a circle, her skirts swirling behind her, and she laughed and kissed him as her feet returned to the ground. Jefferson watched from behind them, keeping his judgment to himself.

"You've done it," Peggy said, without so much as a hello. Her eyes held the same bright sparkle Lafayette knew glinted in his own. The sparkle of revolution, of the first steps on the road to a constitution, to liberty.

"We are in the process of doing it," Lafayette amended. With so much nervous energy in the room, it was desperately difficult not to get ahead of oneself. "The Declaration is the first step. Following that, the Constitution, and the process of convincing the king to endorse it. And after that…"

"We can think about 'after that' when we get there," Peggy interrupted.

She sat down at the table, pulling back the open chair between Jefferson and Lafayette. Jefferson had been propping his feet up on it, and barely had time to snatch them out of the way before Peggy sat down. Jefferson raised both eyebrows, a look of mild offense crossing his face. Peggy, of course, could not have been paid to care less. She snatched up the rough copy of the Declaration from its place on the table, scanned the first few lines…

And, to both Lafayette and Jefferson's astonishment, began to laugh.

Lafayette glanced at Jefferson. Jefferson glanced back, the expression in his eyes perfectly clear: _My dear marquis, I believe your wife may have taken leave of her senses._

"Mr. Jefferson," Peggy began, fighting to compose herself. She slapped the page back down on the table, pointing one finger to the title of the document.

 _A Declaration on the Rights of Man and the Citizen._

"Is that what you're calling this?" she asked.

Jefferson paused. "Is that a concern?" he asked.

"My sister Angelica will want to have a few words with you, I think," she said, plainly still fighting not to laugh. "After her disappointment in your first declaration, she had such high hopes for the sequel."

Lafayette caught the meaning at last—several beats behind, but still half a league above Jefferson. "I expect you will use this as proof that men cannot do anything successfully without a woman in the room," he remarked.

Peggy shrugged. "Your words, not mine."

"And admirable words they are, too, Monsieur le Marquis."

Lafayette flinched. He knew that voice.

He stood up quickly, turning toward the door through which Peggy had entered mere minutes before. Peggy, too, stood by his side, though whether she was reassuring him or he was protecting her, he could not pretend to know. He had hoped he could delay this interview until at least the next day, until the National Assembly met again, until he had gotten a full night's sleep and eaten something resembling a square meal. But though God had smiled on their projects in the Assembly so far, it seemed that His divine grace had run out.

The man standing framed in the doorway wore the rough woolen jacket of a day-laborer, though Lafayette knew for a fact that was an affectation. A giant of a man, four full inches taller than Lafayette and some fifty to sixty pounds heavier. A blunt face, flat and wide like a lion's, the skin ridged and thick with scars. A small smirk on his expressive mouth.

Behind him, Lafayette could feel Peggy staring. He could not blame her, though he could fervently wish she would regain control of her surprise.

"Georges-Jacques," Lafayette said conversationally. "Good evening. I didn't know you knew where I lived."

"Oh, you weren't difficult to track down," Danton remarked. He leaned easily against the doorframe, as if this were his house, as if he had been invited. "I asked where Lafayette the Conquering Revolutionary lodged, and the people were quick to point me the way. I'll try not to take offense you did not invite me to supper."

"Had I know you wanted to meet with me, I would have left my card," Lafayette replied. He was relieved that, despite the anxiety rising quickly within his chest, his voice managed to remain perfectly light, flippant even. It was the kind of tone Alexander always used to speak to people who intimidated him. Not an altogether useless thing to have learned on the far side of the Atlantic.

Glancing over Danton's shoulder, Lafayette caught sight of Catherine, who stood with an open bottle of sherry in one hand, wearing a deeply apologetic expression. Lafayette glared, communicating his thoughts clearly though wordlessly: _If you were only able to do one thing in my service, Catherine, one single solitary thing, I would to God that one thing was keeping Monsieur Georges-Jacques Danton out of my parlor._

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," Catherine said, causing Danton to turn and Lafayette's heart to sink. "I did tell him you were working, and that you were not to be disturbed…"

 _Did you think I was being discreet for the fun of it, Catherine?_

"It's quite all right, Catherine," Lafayette said, with the same faux-cheerfulness he had used at the Assembly all week. "I am perfectly at leisure to speak with Monsieur Danton. You may leave us."

"Charming woman, your housekeeper," Danton remarked, as Catherine took the opportunity to exit. "Older than I usually like them, but then, it's a brave new world now, isn't it? All things are permitted now."

Lafayette's brow darkened. "Peggy," he said, "perhaps you would like to show Ambassador Jefferson out. Monsieur Danton and I will not be long."

Danton raised an eyebrow that seemed to ask _Oh, won't we?_ Fortunately, though Lafayette could sense that Peggy would have liked nothing more than to give Danton a piece of her mind, she nodded and motioned for Jefferson to follow her out the side door. Revolution was a messy business. Sometimes the smartest move was a quick and silent exit.

Now that they were alone, Danton fully entered the room. Though Lafayette had not invited him to sit, and had less than no intention of doing so, Danton pulled out a chair and settled languidly into it, moving with surprising grace despite his bulk. Lafayette remained stiffly standing at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back.

"I assume that you and Jefferson were hard at work on the declaration the Assembly has commissioned," Danton remarked.

"We were," Lafayette replied. His tone did not invite further conversation. "It will be ready to present tomorrow."

"Good," Danton replied. He stretched lazily, arching his back—Lafayette, for a brief and uncharitable moment, was worried for the continued stability of the chair. "In that case, I won't keep you long. You should get some sleep tonight. Big day for you tomorrow, I expect."

"Yes," Lafayette said carefully. Having a conversation with Danton, he was realizing, was rather like dealing with a large, unfamiliar dog. It might be friendly, or it might bite off your head for the pleasure of hearing you scream. In either case, best to tread lightly. "Can I ask to what I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Don't waste your breath on lies, Marquis," Danton said, with a wave of his hand. "You can't stand me because I'm a provincial nobody, and I can't stand you because you're an aristocratic pretty boy with more skill at dancing than at leading a country. Best we're both honest about where we stand."

Lafayette's reasons for hating Danton had nothing to do with his provincial upbringing, but now did not feel like the best time to bring that up.

"All right," Lafayette agreed. "To what do I owe the displeasure of your company?"

Danton smiled—it occurred to Lafayette, with a feeling of deep unease, that the man was actually enjoying himself.

"I wanted to warn you," he said simply. "Thought it was good form to do it in person."

For the first time since Danton had entered the house, Lafayette wished he did not keep his pistol in the bedroom. Not that he intended to shoot Danton, of course. But it would have been reassuring, having the cool hammer of a pistol in his hand, when the revolutionary said words like "I wanted to warn you" in that terrifyingly nonchalant voice.

"Warn me of what?"

"Warn you to be very careful how you align yourself," Danton said. "I know what you think. You think this will be the same kind of revolution you fought with your silly little American friends. You think everyone will band together against tyranny, and you'll be the king's right-hand man as you were Washington's, and everything will end with a treaty and a 21-gun salute and crowds cheering your name."

Lafayette shifted his weight to the opposite leg. Not out of discomfort. More a preparation to run, should the need arise.

"But this is not America," Danton went on, leaning forward over the table, folding his hands in front of him. "This is France. The people are France, or they will be. We do not need an aristocracy. We certainly do not need a king. And if you shirk your duties, if you forget that you owe your allegiance to your country and not to your noble peers, we will not need you either."

Lafayette's pulse was racing, his blood cold, but outwardly, he knew, he betrayed nothing. What came from years of staring down the barrel of a gun: a deathly composure, a grim, to-the-end unshakeable calm. He unfolded his hands from behind his back and let them hang easily by his sides, regarding Danton with a coolness and a reserve even Aaron Burr would have envied.

"Are you threatening me, Monsieur Danton?" he asked.

"Not at all," Danton replied. "I am merely apprising you of the situation."

Lafayette smiled. "Consider me apprised. Now, it is late. And as you say, tomorrow is an important day. I wonder if I might entreat you to"—he gestured toward the door through which Danton had entered—"leave the house?"

Danton rose. "Certainly. Good evening, Monsieur le Marquis. Sleep well. Dream of liberty."

When he had gone, Lafayette sank down into an open chair at the table and took his head in both his hands. All of a sudden, he felt enormously tired.

 _And to think our revolution is, what? A month old? Two? Good God. And I may have to deal with that man for years._

 _Assuming, of course, we let one another live that long._

#

14 July, 1789.

Panic, in the streets of Paris.

Lafayette had rushed into the streets, pistol in the pocket of his coat, swept up in the relentless tide of humanity swept toward the Bastille.

Breached. Stormed. Broken. It did not matter that there had only been seven prisoners within—the symbolism was all, the symbolism was enough.

If there had been no going back after the formation of the National Assembly, this was something of another magnitude. This did not mark a change in course. It marked a change in the composition of the world. The end of the old regime. The dawn of a new age.

Freedom.

Everywhere, screaming. Shouting. Men waving pistols in the air, women with kitchen knives in the ribbons of their aprons. Everyone armed, few knowing who they took up arms against.

Closer to the Place de la Bastille, the panic took form, coalesced into something with a name and a face and a voice. To be precise, the name and the face and the voice of Camille Desmoulins, Danton's delicate companion with the dark eyes and long eyelashes. Lafayette could hear his voice carrying through the streets, see him— _how can I see him, the little man, above the shoulders of so many men?_ —until it occurred to him Camille had climbed up on a chair.

"Take up arms!" roared Camille—apparently his voice had borrowed some of Danton's customary fervor for the occasion. "Take up arms, patriots!"

 _A little late for that, Camille, my friend. The people are a step ahead of you._

Walls crumbling. Blood, the scent of blood, everywhere. Atop the ruinous stones of the Bastille, Lafayette could see, waved like a sickening trophy…

 _It isn't. They wouldn't._

But they would, and the severed heads of the prison guards adorned a row of pikes along the wrecked battlements.

Lafayette felt the blood rush from his face. The breath roaring in time with Camille's diatribe. He wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to celebrate, wanted to fight, all in one wild, twisting moment of horrifying intoxication.

 _Is this to be our revolution?_

#

14 July, 1789.

Peggy perched on the sofa in the drawing-room, sitting on both her hands. Every second the grandfather clock counted away felt like the swish of an axe, severing another thread, widening the separation between her husband and herself. Every second that passed and he did not come home, she was certain he was dead, that the Parisian militants they called the _sans-culottes_ had killed him, their passion costing the lives of royalists and patriots alike.

Catherine sat knitting opposite Peggy, sock after sock, as if she could hold the country together by creating enough sturdy undergarments to keep it warm. The sound of her knitting needles clicking against each other was becoming intolerable.

At last, when the sun had begun to set and long shadows inched over the Rue de Rivoli, the front door opened, and Lafayette stumbled into the house. Peggy jumped to her feet and rushed to him. He collapsed into her arms as if someone had severed the sinews keeping him upright. In her embrace, he was trembling.

"Are you all right?" she murmured, stroking his hair with one hand, holding his body close with the other. "Are you all right? What's happened?"

"Paris is a wolf," he said in a hoarse whisper. "A wolf that will eat its own young. Its people. Its king. If I cannot prevent it."

She pulled back, looked at him in surprise. "You? Lafayette, there are so many men in France. So many people who want this revolution. Why—"

"Trust me," Lafayette said grimly. "I know how this will go."

#

15 July, 1789.

The Marquis de Lafayette was elected to the post of Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard. Charged to keep the peace in the city. Preserve the integrity of the revolution. Further the aims of liberty. And protect the life and interest of His Majesty Louis XVI and His Queen Marie-Antoinette.

Somehow, all four at the same time.

Rumors circled, in the streets of Paris, that when the National Assembly had notified him of his commission, a slightly green Lafayette had smiled grimly and said, "I thank you, gentlemen, for the compliment. You must think me a kind of miracle worker."

Shortly thereafter, it was said, the august members of the National Assembly could hear Lafayette vomiting from the privy chamber.


	16. Burned

So here we are at Chapter 16, otherwise known as "the chapter in which the author works out her rage at how both Washington and Hamilton are literally the worst humans ever, and for some reason Jefferson is the only one with a moral center." #LafayetteDeservedBetter2kAlways

* * *

XVI.

 _The Marquis de Lafayette to Alexander Hamilton, 28 August 1789_

Alexander,

I confess, it feels strange to be writing in English again. Seven years I lived in your country, bastardizing your language left and right. Apparently, all it takes is four months back in my own country, and I've lost whatever eloquence I ever possessed.

Peggy is, of course, an enormous help. At present, she is reading a newspaper on the other side of the parlor, humoring me as I interrupt her to ask for a word I've misplaced. (Six times, so far. Not that I keep count.) Between the two of us, I am confident I will eventually arrive at what I am trying to say.

I wish the purpose of this letter was mere friendly concern about you, your career, your dear Eliza, your children. (My nieces and nephews, too, in a sense. God, but the world is a mad place.) And I long to hear such carefree news, don't mistake me. But in writing this letter to you, Alexander, I prove myself a poor sort of friend. I come not to exchange news, but to beg your help.

I know you've heard of the situation currently unfolding between my king and my country. The National Assembly has taken control of the daily business of governing, and pressures the king daily to ratify a constitution—which, of course, Louis will never do. I fear the nobles and the people can never arrive at a sound solution when all three are forever at one another's throats. A cannibalistic Cerberus, where every bite and scratch soothes one head's need for revenge but kills the body by inches.

Peggy is regarding me now with a look of deep suspicion, no doubt wondering why I should need the word "cannibalistic" or "Cerberus." Perhaps my metaphor runs away with me.

I shall, then, come to the point.

I am afraid, Alexander. For myself secondarily, for my country foremost. The king is weak-willed and will be led by whichever faction emerges strongest. But I cannot pretend to know which that will be. The queen? Monsieur Danton and his band of militants from the Rue des Cordeliers? I cannot say.

My friends in the city whisper that war with Europe is inevitable. I believe them. We are too volatile, unsteady, to sustain peace. France is not united against an enemy across the Atlantic, as we were in '76. Today in France, we fight ourselves. Chaos reigns, and I fear our ill-planned boldness will turn the whole of Europe against us.

Alexander, I must ask. As a fellow soldier. A friend. A brother.

Any help America can send—troops, supplies, funds—we will repay twenty times over. Have already repaid, mind you, in '76, but will repay again. Speak to President Washington and the Cabinet. Inform them of our situation.

America has the strongest of allies in France. I hope we have proven that. And when we are able, we will prove it again.

Please, Alexander. I would not ask if I did not need it.

Reply in haste.

Yours always,

— Lafayette

#

Eliza poked her head into Alexander's study, rapping twice with her knuckles on the doorframe. Alexander flinched as though she'd screamed in his ear. He quickly pushed back his chair from the desk where he'd been reading the day's letters. His face seemed strained, his eyes distracted. He ran his hand backward through his hair and gave his wife a small, forced smile.

"Alexander?" Eliza said warily.

"What is it?"

"Are you…are you all right?" she asked.

"Fine," he responded. With his back to the desk, he slid the sheet of paper he had been reading beneath a large leather-bound book. Had Eliza not been paying careful attention, she would not have noticed the gesture.

But she did notice.

"What was that?" she pressed, entering the room fully.

He drew back half a step, leaning would-be-casually against the desk. "Nothing. A letter from Madison. Just politics. Did you need something?"

Eliza paused. She had been married to Alexander for years—she knew what it felt like to be lied to. But she also knew that this was not one of those situations where it was worth the effort of pressing the point. She could fight him all day, but she would make no headway, and frankly was not in the mood. If he were writing letters to loose women in Brooklyn, so be it, so long as he kept quiet in public. She smiled, in an attempt to reassure him, though whether or not she succeeded, she couldn't tell.

"Philip's asking for you," she said. "He's got something he wants to show you."

"Eliza, I have so much work to do," Alexander began. "Can't it—"

"He's been asking for you all day, Alexander. Take ten minutes. You can afford ten minutes."

After a brief pause, Alexander sighed, then shrugged. "I suppose you're right. Let me finish this letter. I'll be down in a minute."

Once Eliza had left him alone again, Alexander slipped Lafayette's letter back out from beneath the book. He looked at it critically for a moment, seeing in the curves and lines of the handwriting his friend's face, hearing his voice, sensing his anxiety.

 _What do you want me to do, my friend?_ _Do you think I can afford to sacrifice my country?_

He balled the page up in one hand and tossed it to the side of the desk. It landed among a pile of identical pages, all cast aside in frustration during the morning's writing session. He hesitated another several seconds, before shaking his head to clear it of foolish sentiment.

 _A man has to be his own friend, first._

Alexander left the study and closed the door silently behind him, before descending the stairs to rejoin his wife and son.

#

 _Peggy Schuyler to Alexander Hamilton, 17 October 1789_

Alexander,

I can only assume that the post between Paris and New York is unreliable, or that a capsized ship prevented my husband's last letter from meeting with you. I can't imagine another reason why you would not have replied at this point. I hope, certainly, that your long silence does not indicate that some misfortune has befallen you—although I imagine Eliza would keep me informed if that were the case.

Regardless.

You should know Lafayette does not wish me to write to you. He thinks you'll find it impolite, that we'll appear to be begging, that we'll sound desperate. Well, I am willing to be impolite. I am begging. We are desperate.

Paris is falling to pieces. All began well enough—Lafayette and Jefferson's _Declaration on the Rights of Man and the Citizen_ was well received, and formed the basis for a more liberal constitution.

Guess how long the honeymoon period of this revolution lasted?

Precisely four days.

The fall of the Bastille was a symbolic horror. What we have now is something else altogether. Lafayette is the captain of the National Guard, charged to keep order in the city. _Order._ While men and women alike roam the streets with pikes, hurling death threats against both royalists and revolutionaries, depending on the day. To think anyone cares for _order_ , in a world like this.

My God, Alexander, I'm afraid for my husband. I don't know how much longer he can continue in this role and survive. The nobles hate him because he fought for America in '76, because he stood with the Assembly. They think him a traitor and a brigand. The people hate him for his title, and because he wouldn't execute the king with a blunt pike if they asked. Both sides hate organized religion as a threat to liberty, and Lafayette was named after six separate saints. He's both too radical and not radical enough, and hated on all sides.

I see the toll it's taking on him, though you can't. If the _sans-culottes_ or the aristocracy don't kill him, the stress will. And he's right to be anxious. There will be blood on these streets soon. The king's? The Assembly's? His? Mine? I can't pretend to know.

Alexander, listen to me. I write with my husband's interests in mind, though against his will. Speak up for France at the Cabinet. War with Austria and the Prussians is weeks away. Riots over the price of bread happen daily. We cannot continue this way.

I'm not asking you, Alexander. I'm telling you. Do it. Or have the courage to reply to me and tell me why not.

— Peggy

#

 _Alexander Hamilton to Peggy Schuyler, 28 October 1789_

Peggy,

I'm sorry. I can't.

If we try to fight in every revolution in the world, it never stops. Where do we draw the line?

— Alexander

#

 _The Marquis de Lafayette to President George Washington_ , _23 June 1790_

President Washington, my general, and my dear friend,

Forgive my boldness in addressing you directly in this manner. As a private citizen, I know I have no right to lay claim to your time. But I hope our former history will persuade you to indulge me.

General, I have addressed myself repeatedly to Secretary Hamilton, and received no reply. Frankly, my situation is desperate. As you know, I am the captain of the National Guard, charged to keep order in Paris. As well keep order in pandemonium.

Not long ago, I stood unarmed on the balcony of Versailles, my men surrounded, facing a mob of citizens storming the palace. A self-appointed army, armed to the teeth, hell-bent on destroying the house of Bourbon, from the paving stones to the neck of the king. Thanks be to God, I was able to leverage what little authority I retain to disperse the mob. But I cannot rely on such a miracle a second time.

I do not know what to do.

My troops resent me. My king scarcely tolerates me. The queen despises me—would happily see me torn to pieces by the mob I risked my life to defend her from. The leaders of the revolution and the counter-revolution both consider me their prime enemy.

 _I do not know what to do._

I need more men. I need help.

I would not ask if I were not in deadly need of aid. I would not remind you of what my countrymen and I sacrificed for your revolution unless my country's future depended on that sacrifice being returned.

General, if I am too bold, forgive me. But I beg you, do not ignore my request. France is your first and greatest ally. If you would continue to rely on her as such, she must survive. She may not, without you.

I may not, without you.

I remain, General, your former officer and—as I hope—friend,

— Lafayette

#

Washington set down the letter on the surface of his desk. The room was quiet, dimly lit by an oil lamp on its last gasps. A thick June heat curled in through the window, making his movements slow, lethargic.

That was why he couldn't think, he told himself. That was why he didn't know what to do.

The heat. That was all.

Night sprawled across the grounds outside his window and spread shadows throughout his study. Through the dimness, it was easier to see by the silvery light of memory, to call up scenes he would have greatly preferred to forget.

But the memories didn't care what he preferred.

The earnest, well-dressed teenager who had appeared at Washington's Manhattan outpost, speaking broken English, requesting a commission.

The boy, better-spoken at twenty but no less earnest, being thrown from his horse at the Battle of Brandywine. Face drawn and ashen, bleeding hard from a bullet to the leg. How the boy bound his own wound with his officer's sash and roared for the retreating troops to return and fight, staving off their panic, saving hundreds of lives. How he screamed, later, when the bullet was cut out with a pocketknife, the wound cleaned with whiskey and cauterized with a bayonet heated in the fire.

The shivering, gaunt young man at Valley Forge, and the fleet of ships he and his soon-to-be wife had secured.

The man, standing in Trinity Church, smiling like a fool, as the whip-smart young woman with the lively eyes agreed to marry him.

Lafayette. Like a son to him. As close to a son as he would ever have, with his and Martha's ages being what they were.

But this revolution. No, this riot. This hydra of a conflict, that would suck in American lives with no regard for how it mortally wounded both countries. It couldn't happen.

Lafayette understood politics better than most members of Washington's cabinet. The Frenchman had to have known that this was an option. That this was Washington's only option.

"I'm sorry, my boy," Washington said aloud to the empty room. "We're too fragile to start another fight."

Slowly, he fed the edge of the letter into the oil lamp, and watched in sober silence as the page caught and writhed into black ashes.

He should have written back. Explained his reasons, his reservations, his continued affections for the marquis despite the circumstances. It surprised him, how much of a coward he now felt, that he could not bring himself to do it.

#

 _The Marquis de Lafayette to Thomas Jefferson_ , _4 January 1791_

Thomas,

Please deal straightly with me. I have written to Secretary Hamilton four times now, President Washington three. I can gain no reply. As a man who nearly gave his life for your country on countless occasions, I would have thought I deserved better treatment than this. And from Hamilton and Washington, no less. My brother, and a man who professed to care for my welfare as a father might. Evidently I have been misled.

Forgive me. In my frustration, I grow sentimental. There is no time for sentiment under the rule of revolution.

Since the abject disaster that was the massacre at the Champs de Mars, I have been relegated to a military post on the eastern border, near where the Austrian troops are encamped. (I swear by all the saints, Thomas, France is now at war with nearly every country in Europe.)

I have never been opposed to military service. And in any case, it is likely in my best interest to put some miles between myself and Paris, given that the city is run by men who would very much like to shorten me by a head. Nevertheless, I confess I mistrust my commission. I am of the opinion that Danton, Desmoulins, and that demagogue Marat have sent me to the front so that when they have me assassinated, they can make it look like an accident of war.

I realize this sounds fanciful on paper. But were you here, Thomas, you would know exactly how little imagination I use to arrive at this conclusion. The revolutionaries are an imaginative lot, conjuring up enemies and conspiracies where there are none, but I consider myself more of a realist.

Forgive my tone, my friend. It may sound as though I do not take my situation seriously. Nothing, I promise, could be further from the truth. I don't know another way to cope with the collective madness that is France, other than to laugh. Like a dying man laughs at the skulls of those who came before him. I laugh, and I write letters that my former friends will not answer.

I wonder if my command of the English language is not as strong as I had thought. Perhaps the words "friend," "brother," and "ally" mean something different in your language than in mine.

Reply, Thomas. At this juncture, I frankly could not care less what you say. But a reply. You owe me at least that much.

Yours,

— Lafayette

#

Jefferson leaned forward, resting both hands on Washington's desk. The former ambassador was a tall man, but not necessarily an intimidating one, built primarily of limbs and angles. Nevertheless, in his current state of desperation, there was almost something frightening about him. Washington drew imperceptibly back, inching his chair away.

"Mr. President," Jefferson began again, a sharp fire in his eyes, "will we not stand with our friends as they fight against tyranny? Who gave us money and guns and supplies when our own revolution seemed to fail? France. Who do we owe our allegiance? France. Who—"

Washington raised his hand in a swift gesture. Jefferson fell silent mid-sentence. The president's face was drawn, his bearing weary. When he spoke, his words seemed to come from a great distance. "Enough, Thomas."

Jefferson stared, as stunned as if Washington had slapped him. "Sir," he began. "Do we not fight for freedom?"

"Our own freedom, first. At any cost."

"Sir—"

"The subject is closed, Thomas."

"But—"

" _Closed._ "

Jefferson opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, feeling the agonizing uselessness of words. In the back of his mind, Lafayette's letter still rang through his brain.

 _Perhaps the word "friend" means something different in your language than in mine._

Before Washington could deny him another time, Jefferson turned on his heel and swept out of the presidential office, slamming the door behind him.

#

 _Thomas Jefferson to the Marquis de Lafayette, 4 February 1791_

I'm sorry, my friend. I tried.

— Thomas


	17. Public Safety

XVII.

 _Paris, 27 June 1792_

"Madame, are you sure—" Catherine began to protest, hastening down the stairs after her mistress.

But Peggy seemed quite sure. She snatched up her coat from where it slumped over the back of a chair and savagely shot one arm through it.

"I'm going to the Palais de Justice," she said sharply. "If I'm not back in two hours, you have my permission to call the police."

Catherine, despite the urgency of the subject, paused. "Aren't you _going_ to the police?"

Peggy cursed. The inconvenient truth of revolution: what constituted law and order was notoriously difficult to pin down.

"Call someone, then," she said, and opened the door.

"Madame, wait—"

 _Slam._

Peggy bounded down the townhouse's front steps and spilled into the Rue de Rivoli, shoulders squared, head up. It would have been safer, probably, to wait for an escort. Even Catherine would have done, silly as she was. The streets of Paris were not safe to traverse alone, if the grisly murder of the Princesse de Lamballe was any indication. Any street whose cobblestones had so recently run with blood should have been walked with some degree of caution. However, Peggy was in no mood to be careful. If she could have snatched up a pike from a nearby citizen and stormed the Palais de Justice herself, she would have done it.

As the matter stood, she had to settle for striding down its marble halls and looming over the desk of the secretary barring her entry to the office. It was not quite the same, but it was better than nothing.

The beady-eyed secretary had, evidently, not expected anyone to turn up this afternoon. He shuffled his papers loudly, then, with an officious little sniff, turned to Peggy.

"And who might you be, citizeness?" he asked, with a voice like a half-strung viola.

Peggy wrinkled her nose, irked. "The Marquise de Lafayette," she said, wielding the aristocratic title like a weapon. "Here to speak with Monsieur Robespierre."

The secretary sniffed again. Peggy wondered whether the man had been taking snuff just before she arrived. She couldn't blame him—had she been forced to work for Robespierre, she'd have done the same. Anything to get through the day.

"I regret to inform you that Monsieur Robespierre is indisposed," he said smoothly.

"Then you'd better tell him to dispose himself, hadn't you?" Peggy shot back.

She and the secretary squared off across the desk for a long moment, neither of them speaking. The secretary might disappoint people for a living, but it would take more than a sniffling bureaucrat to turn Peggy away.

Finally, when it became clear she would stay where she was until the opening of the seventh seal if she had to, the secretary groaned. He straightened his spectacles—rather aggressively in Peggy's opinion—before making a sharp gesture indicating that she should follow him.

"If he eats you alive, I shan't be held responsible," he warned her, pausing in front of the door.

Peggy graced him with an icy smile. "I should never dream of holding you responsible. Now, if you please. I think I can make my way from here."

With that, she pushed past the secretary and entered the office of Maximilien de Robespierre, Chief Member of the Committee of Public Safety and de facto leader of the revolution.

What she'd expected from Robespierre's office, Peggy wasn't sure. Certainly not this: bare walls, Spartan décor, piles upon piles of books and papers and balance sheets stacked on every level surface. It was midday, but the curtains had been pulled over the room's sole window, as though direct exposure to sunlight could be damaging to the owner of the office. It looked more like a monk's cell than the office of a high-ranking public official. Peggy half-expected a sackcloth-frocked friar to leap out of the closet, murmuring the Pater Noster. But of course, religion had been essentially outlawed with the birth of the French Constitution, and Peggy had more important things to think about.

Because this might be Robespierre's office, but he was not the only man in it.

Peggy felt her hackles rise at the sight of George-Jacques Danton leaning backward against Robespierre's desk, resting both hands against the wood. Danton had evidently been in the middle of a sentence—his expression was that of a man who had several brilliant and important points left to make, and was rather disappointed at the prospect of not making them. He glanced toward the door with narrowed eyes, nodding at Peggy in recognition if not welcome.

Seated in an armchair opposite, legs curled up lotus-style underneath him, perched a small, slim man Peggy recognized on sight. A liberal spirit might have called Camille Desmoulins handsome. "Visually interesting" might have been more honest, but in the same room as Danton even the plainest men took on shades of beauty. Without the bull-like foil of his friend to set him off, Camille would have looked like a wild boy trailing a circus caravan, or a winsomely clever street urchin in some dreadful five-sous novel. The way he glanced from Danton to Peggy put her immediately in mind of a small dog in a frock coat, earnestly hoping for a pat on the head from anyone within arm's reach.

And there, leaning against the window with his arms folded across his worn-out coat, stood the man himself, Maximilien de Robespierre. If Danton was a boulder and Camille a puppy, Robespierre was a piece of stretched-thin lace, consumptive and transparent. Resplendent in his austerity, his posture was languid, yet puritanical. His presence seemed like an apology for the amount of space Danton took up.

Except for his eyes. As they flicked away from Danton and locked on Peggy, Robespierre's eyes made no apologies for anything.

"Good afternoon, citizeness," he said, in a voice like hummingbirds' wings. He did not move away from the window. His prim drawing-room accent made the supposedly equalizing form of address feel like an insult.

"Good afternoon," Peggy said. "I expected your secretary to announce me."

"After the revolution, we have no need for titles and introductions," Robespierre said with an easy shrug. "We are all brothers and sisters. You can introduce yourself to me."

"You're Margaret du Motier," Camille said, looking at Peggy with his large, waif-like eyes.

Robespierre looked at Camille sharply, resenting the ruined staging of his little _liberté egalité fraternité_ demonstration. Peggy would have smiled, if this had been the kind of company it was acceptable to smile in.

"I am," she said. "A pleasure to meet you in person, Monsieur Robespierre. And you, Monsieur Desmoulins."

"Not a pleasure to meet Monsieur Danton, I take it?" Robespierre remarked.

"That's a pleasure I've already had," Peggy said drily. Danton tipped his head ironically.

"Please," Robespierre said, gesturing with one fragile hand at the chair beside Camille, "sit. Danton, Camille, and I had business to attend to, but we are never too busy to address the concerns of our fellow citizens."

Peggy did not flinch. "I'd rather stand." She had an ill-defined feeling that sitting down in front of this ice prince and his cohorts would be acknowledging defeat.

Robespierre shrugged. "As you like."

"While you're here," Danton remarked, leaning further against the desk, "I haven't heard from your husband in some time. Has he written to you lately?"

"Last week," she said shortly.

"And how is the old marquis?" Camille asked. "Getting on royally at the border?"

Peggy could not even be surprised. That was Camille all over—far more bombast than subtlety. At least no one could ever accuse him of wasting an adverb.

"He's been better," she replied.

Robespierre had the nerve to look sorrowful. He stepped away from the window—without so much as a word or a gesture, Danton caught the cue. Danton took the vacant chair at the center of the room as Robespierre sat behind the desk, leaning the elbows of his threadbare coat against the tabletop and steepling his fingers thoughtfully. Camille continued watching Robespierre with his dark, owl-like eyes. Peggy had to bite back the urge to run.

"Doubtless," Robespierre said. "His is not an easy task. I wish your husband a swift and safe return, citizeness."

"No, you don't," Peggy said coldly. "You want my husband to die at the front so you can use his skull for a paperweight. Don't lie to me. I didn't come to be lied to."

Clearly it would take more than the chill in Peggy's words to make the Chief Member of the Committee of Public Safety and his two friends flinch. Camille glanced lightly at Danton, who returned the look with a smile. Robespierre merely examined his fingernails.

"Very well, then," Camille said. "Why don't you tell us why you came?"

"Much as I love guessing games, my dear," Danton added, "running a revolution does not leave us an overabundance of free time."

Peggy took a deep breath, both for courage and to let a lungful of anger escape before it got the better of her. She could not afford to fly off the handle, not now. Spewing every noun, verb, and conjunction that came to mind might be all well and good for Alexander, in a country where the worst the opposition could do was call for your removal from office. With these men, she would have to tread very carefully.

Fortunately, she was not Philip Schuyler's daughter for nothing. She leveled a stare at Robespierre, ignoring the other two as unnecessary additions to the décor.

"I came to ask you in person, Monsieur Robespierre, why you have called for the arrest of my husband."

Robespierre, slowly, brought his steepled fingertips down to the surface of the desk. His snowflake smile had melted slightly at the edges.

"My dear, we are men of honor and justice. I promise you, we do not arrest anyone without exceedingly good reason."

"I never doubted that." Peggy's tone matched his for ironic lightness. "You can understand, though, that I'd appreciate hearing what those reasons are."

"Your husband is a sworn royalist and a threat to this nation's survival," Camille began indignantly.

Peggy didn't even look at him. "Quiet now, Camille," she said, eyes still on Robespierre. "The grown-ups are talking."

She didn't know which reaction made her feel more uncomfortable, Camille's scowl or Danton's chuckle. But Robespierre merely sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if he nursed a headache.

"Unfortunately, citizeness, Camille is right. After the way your husband defended the king after the treasonous Flight of Varennes, not to mention the horrendous massacre at the Champs de Mars, your husband's credit with the revolution is regrettably not as sterling as once it was."

"He's been a leader of this revolution since the beginning," Peggy protested. "Yes, he wants peace in Paris. Is that a sin?"

"Nothing is a sin in the new France," Danton reminded her, a wry smile tugging at his broad lips. "There is no good or evil, only revolutionary and counter-revolutionary."

"Danton, do not be vulgar," Robespierre snapped, like an overworked schoolmaster. Wearily, he turned back to Peggy with a faint smile. "I grant that your husband was valorous once. But we cannot pardon present treasons because of past behavior. Should we forgive Judas because once he gave money to widows and orphans?"

Peggy smiled grimly. "That seems like an inexact example, Monsieur. If, as you say, there is no sin left in France."

Camille stood up from his chair—Robespierre gave him a severe look, but Camille ignored him and glowered at Peggy. They were within an inch of one another's heights. She watched him with an outward air of calm in marked contrast to his thinly veiled rage, though inside her heart beat hard against her chest.

"You have some nerve, coming here and speaking this way, when your husband is the very kind of traitor we are working to defend this country against," Camille snapped. "If I had my way, _citizeness_ , I would take back the marquis' military commission and give him a warm cell in Châtelet, like he deserves."

Peggy knew it was a bad idea. Really and truly she did. But bad ideas could be so deeply, impossibly satisfying.

She whipped her hand back and slapped Camille Desmoulins across the face as hard as she could.

The sound echoed through the silent room with a carrying _crack._ Camille stood, staring, as if stunned. Danton watched Peggy as if she might pull a knife from the pocket of her coat and stab them all through the heart. Even Robespierre dropped his usual façade of disinterest and looked at Peggy in wry surprise. Peggy, for her part, felt a rush of energy stronger than anything she'd felt since running the British blockade with Rochambeau.

"If you lift one finger against my husband," she said coldly, "I promise I will make you live to regret it. I am both a Schuyler and a Lafayette. Two families that do not go down without a fight. Keep that in mind, gentlemen."

Silence continued for another long moment, before Robespierre smiled.

"I will think on it continually, citizeness."

"See you do," Peggy said, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The secretary tried to interject as she swept down the hall, through the door, and out into the street, but she was not in the mood to listen.

 _That was stupid. You know that was stupid. All you've done is made them angrier._

True, of course, but she didn't care. Someone had to tell the new despots of the revolution that they may have given themselves power over a country, but no one had given them power over Peggy. She almost wished they _would_ try to arrest Lafayette, if only for the opportunity to give them a real piece of her mind.

That is, she wished that until she reached the front door, stepped into the front hall of her house, and heard voices coming from the dining room.

"But, Monsieur, the Convention—"

"Yes, I know, Catherine, but that's tomorrow, not today. Let me be at home for a few hours before I have to think about addressing the Convention. When will she be back?"

Peggy froze. Her coat fell from nerveless fingers to the wooden floor of the entry hall. Surely she was hearing things. Surely the stress of her meeting at the Palais de Justice was causing her to hear voices that were not there. Surely he would not be so stupid.

But when she stepped into the dining room, she saw Catherine seated across the table from the tall, dark-haired man in a military uniform bearing the four stars of a lieutenant general. And then she knew.

He _would_ be that stupid.

"Lafayette," she whispered.

He turned immediately at the sound of her voice, rising instinctively from the chair. She wanted to be angry with him—given another thirty seconds, would probably be angry with him—but in that moment she couldn't keep anger and her relief straight in her head. Unable to say anything else, she rushed forward and embraced him, feeling his strong arms hold her close, the gentle rhythm of his breathing against her body. He was alive. He was safe, and he was free.

Worse for the wear, of course—Lafayette had an unfortunate tendency of getting command of armies that were underfunded and understaffed. His uniform was coated with dust from the road, his boots were worn almost out of use, and there were a few premature strands of gray shooting through his hair that Peggy did not remember seeing when he'd left for the front. But as he cupped one callused palm against her cheek and looked at her with eyes that ached with longing, he seemed again the wild, enthusiastic boy she had fallen in love with in Albany. Still himself. Still hers.

"You don't know how many times I've dreamed of holding you again," he said softly, and kissed her until the feeling left her arms and legs and she felt herself floating above her own body. Too perfect, too much of exactly what she wanted, to leave her any breath to be angry with him.

"How did you get here?" she asked—noticing that Catherine, tactful for perhaps the first time in her life, had quietly taken her leave. "How did you get into Paris without anyone noticing?"

Lafayette grinned, his smile still brilliant in his drawn face. "I have my ways. I told you how I snuck away from my uncle to come to America, back in '77? I disguised myself as a messenger and rode all through the night to Spain."

She had heard the story at least twenty times, of course, but would happily have heard it twenty more if it meant another chance to hear her husband's voice.

"How long have you been back?"

"Twenty minutes," he said, with a shrug. "Catherine told me you had left for the Palais de Justice. I was sure she was mistaken…"

The name of the building called the faces of the three masterminds of the revolution back into Peggy's consciousness. She shivered, despite the summer heat. It did not matter what she wanted. It did not matter that she would have given everything she had to keep Lafayette at her side every minute of every day.

Nothing mattered more than keeping him safe.

And the only way he could be safe was not to be here.

"You have to leave," she said, though she did not let go of his hands.

He stared. "What?"

"You heard me. It's not safe for you here."

Either Lafayette did not understand or he was deliberately refusing to. He pulled her hands to his waist, before encircling her own with his arms. "Not safe? I'm safer here than anywhere. I have to speak to the Convention tomorrow, but after that…Peggy, didn't you miss me?"

"Of course I missed you," she said. "But please, my God, don't go to the Convention tomorrow."

Some of her urgency had at last connected with Lafayette's brain. He frowned, looking at her seriously now. "Did you…Peggy, did you hear something?"

"Plenty," she replied. "In fact, I've just come from slapping Camille Desmoulins across the face because of what I've heard."

He grinned. "Did you? God pardon me, but you _are_ perfect."

"Lafayette, be serious. I spoke with Robespierre, Camille, and Danton."

"Alone? But—"

"I know. But listen to me. They want you arrested. They want you _killed._ "

An audible blink sounded through the dining room. Lafayette had ridden too far on too little sleep to make sense of a sentence like that. He sat down heavily in the dining-room chair, looking at her in disbelief.

"They…Peggy, don't be absurd. They can't kill me. I command their army. I—"

"Do you think that matters?" She didn't care about frightening him now. She didn't care if her words cut deep. For God's sake, why wouldn't he _see_? "They'd kill the king tomorrow. They'd kill each other if it would help them, do you think they won't kill you?"

Lafayette slowly ran one hand backward through his hair. She could see reality dawn on him inch by inch. The last remnants of his confidence, siphoning away. She would have wept, if there had been any use.

"You need to go," she said again, sitting next to him, one hand on his knee. "The provinces. Belgium. America. I don't know where. But every second you stay in Paris, you're in danger."

"Peggy, I won't leave you behind," he said firmly.

"I'm not asking you to. Not forever. Find somewhere safe, then send for me. Catherine and I will follow. I'll find a soldier to travel with us, for the road. Rochambeau, maybe. He could stand to get out of town." She smiled, more for Lafayette's benefit than for her own. "We can finally be together, without the war. We could…we could start a family," she finished, surprising herself with the words.

Surprised still more by the pained expression that flickered across Lafayette's face.

"Is now the right time to talk about that?" he asked.

He was right.

"No," she replied. "Probably not. When we're both safe. Then we'll talk. But please, love, promise me. Promise me you'll go."

The idea galled him, she could tell. The idea of running away. Even if it were good sense and not cowardice, he harbored too much of a revolutionary spirit to enjoy giving up without a fight. But given the choice between an honorable husband and a live one, Peggy would choose the latter every time.

Finally, he sighed and squeezed her hand in his.

"All right," he said, his voice a surrender. "I'll go. But tomorrow. I will stay tonight."

She smiled, genuine relief edging away the chill that had frozen her body since she first saw her husband's face.

"Good. I could use tonight."

#

They fell asleep next to each other, Peggy nestled in the warm, thin comma of Lafayette's body.

When she awoke, the other side of the bed was cold, and his coat and boots were missing from the front hall. Later, when she spoke to the stableboy, he said he'd seen the tall marquis riding east, toward the border, half an hour before sunrise.


	18. The Mousetrap

**A/N:** It's been a while since I've started with a sappy author's note, but now feels like a good time to do one. Because seriously, you guys have stayed with me for over 50,000 words, and I'm not sure I deserve it, but I sure as heck appreciate it. Even though there are a million objective reasons why no one should ever read this story, including: A) This ship is bananas; B) I took a hard left in the middle and started doing French Revolution AU, because YOLO; C) It takes me like a month every time to update, thus proving why I can't be trusted with multi-chapter fics; and D) I'm basically flying by the seat of my pants over here.

Seriously, y'all have been the most encouraging, welcoming, wonderful readers ever, and thank God for you.

I _will_ finish this story. Even if it takes me forever and a day. Swear on George Washington's wooden teeth.

We now return to your previously scheduled fighting Frenchman.

* * *

XVIII.

 _14 August 1792  
Near the Franco-Swiss Border_

A few minutes before sunrise, a faint brush of color across the horizon signaled dawn's efforts to shoulder night aside. Unlike Paris, unlike the wooded lowlands of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, here a man could see the horizon, see the day the moment it started. A line of woods rose a ten minutes' ride from where Lafayette stood, huddled in his greatcoat, making for the border where he had left his troops garrisoned two weeks before. He'd left his horse behind at the last inn on the road—making the journey on foot was dismal, but it increased his odds of passing unnoticed.

He'd left his troops in the charge of Lieutenant Lefèvre, a likely young fellow with both enthusiasm and military acumen in spades. Lafayette sighed, thinking how likely it was that Lefèvre's enthusiasm had eroded completely in the two months he'd had sole command.

Enthusiasm, in wartime, was a highly perishable commodity.

He wasn't so old himself, really, Lafayette thought, resolutely putting one foot in front of the other toward the woods. Old, maybe, in the context of his family, but that really wasn't much to go by objectively. The Lafayette family had an unnerving pattern of rearing sons who died in battle before the age of thirty.

It occurred to Lafayette, in the melancholy cast of morning that encouraged such thoughts, that he'd now lived longer than his own father. Not that he remembered the man much. The elder marquis had been killed in a skirmish in the Seven Years' War when Lafayette was not yet two. But it was destabilizing, somehow, to think that if father and son were to meet again in heaven, Lafayette would meet a father who was seven years his junior.

He shook his head, dislodging the unproductive train of thought as he did so. He could not afford to be maudlin, not now. When he was safely out of France, then he could indulge as many solipsistic tangents as he pleased. For now, he had a job to do. He would issue his command to the army, see his affairs were in order—even with the threat of arrest and possible death hanging over his neck, he could not bring himself to wholly abandon his post.

And then, when the men were asleep that night, he thought as he finally entered the woods, he would vanish across the border into Switzerland, like mist blown away by morning.

It turned his stomach, the running away. As a boy, he never would have done it. Would have charged with his sword held high where the fighting was thickest, and to deep hell with the consequences. But he was not a boy any longer. He could not afford the risk he had run at Monmouth. The kind of risk that had caused General Washington to glance at Horatio Gates, both mistakenly thinking Lafayette out of earshot, and remark, "Good God, but the young marquis seems determined to put himself in danger."

But now he had someone else depending on him to stay alive.

Lafayette stopped walking, very suddenly.

He heard the snap of a twig from behind him, and turned.

He wanted to run, but when he found himself facing twelve men on horseback, he knew instantly he would not get far.

Fear would have been a natural response. No one would have faulted him for fear. But somehow, as the platoon of armed soldiers descended on him, encircling him like a pack of dogs cornering a fox, a deathly sense of calm settled into Lafayette's brain. His heart rate did not change, his shoulders did not tense.

A line from _Hamlet,_ borne on a perplexing current of memory he did not understand, drifted into his brain without rhyme or reason. _"If it be now, 'tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. The readiness is all."_

He'd known, deep down, it would be now. He had always been ready for this.

The leader of the soldiers, an officer dressed in the brilliant green uniform of an Austrian general, dismounted and turned his sword on Lafayette's chest. The French general did not blink.

"Well," the Austrian sneered, his accent dragging out the syllable. "What have we found here? A rat?"

"Perhaps," Lafayette said coolly. "But I hate to think what kind of vermin that would make you."

Lafayette couldn't pretend to know where his bravado had come from. Surely nowhere rational, as the general gave a cold laugh and pressed the point of his sword harder against Lafayette's chest, driving him back a step.

"You're a bold one, aren't you, Monsieur le Marquis de Lafayette," the general snapped.

He jerked his head to the side in a wordless signal. Three more soldiers dismounted, advancing on Lafayette.

Lafayette's hand began to reach for his pistol—not that it would do much good. There was no earthly way he could fight off twelve men single-handedly. But before he could even begin the futile attempt, one of the soldiers grabbed him hard by the wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back.

A kind of reckless superhuman strength surged through Lafayette, surprising even himself. He broke free of the soldier's hold, kicked out to sweep the legs out from beneath another, his elbow sliced back toward the man who had grasped at him from behind. He heard the crunch of bone and a man's cry, saw the second man fall, whirled to face the third, hand scrambling for his knife.

Too late.

A fourth man caught him with an arm around the throat. The cool thread of a knife's edge pressed hard against his neck. The cutting edge nicked the skin; Lafayette could feel a thin trail of blood trickling down to his collarbone.

Only then, and not a moment before, did panic begin to set in.

The general chuckled, shaking his head. "They told us you were a brave man, Monsieur le Marquis," he remarked. "A dangerous revolutionary. They also said you were a reckless idiot. It seems they were right on both counts. Bind his hands," he added to the soldier whose nose Lafayette had likely broken.

The man wrenched Lafayette's arms behind his back, securing his hands with a short length of rope. Tight enough that Lafayette winced—a knot that tight had to be revenge for the blood streaming from the man's nose. He felt another soldier's hands unclasping the sword from his waist, taking and unloading his pistol, even finding the knife stowed in his boot.

Without weapons, he felt naked. Without his hands, he felt inhuman. The knife pressed still against his throat.

"What good do you think I'll do you as a prisoner?" Lafayette asked. "What does your army want with me?"

The general smiled. "With the infamous General Lafayette, France's dashing revolutionary-in-chief? What do you think?"

Lafayette's grim laugh sounded almost like a cough. "If you believe that's how France thinks of me," he said. "I have some deeply disappointing news for you."

"I'd be very careful what you say from here on out," the general remarked. "Yes, I told my king we'd take you alive. But one slip of the wrist, and, well…"

The knife against Lafayette's throat wavered; his breath caught.

"Accidents happen, during wartime."

Lafayette barely noticed when two soldiers took him by the arms and force-marched him forward, as the rest of the soldiers remounted. He did not know where they were taking him, and had no energy left for speculation. The only thought consuming his brain was the urgency in Peggy's eyes, and the echo of her voice, louder than the sound of horses and moving soldiers around him.

" _When we're both safe. Then we'll talk. But please, love, promise me. Promise me you'll go."_

He wondered, as he was marched away, whether there were anywhere on Earth he would be safe.

Whether he would ever see her again.

#

 _28 August 1792  
Paris_

"Have you seen this?" Camille asked. He brandished the letter with a languid gesture, the paper flashing like a meteor through the dimly lit office.

The sun had nearly set outside the Palais de Justice, but none of the three men inside had yet moved to light the lamps. Danton and Robespierre worked at the same desk, seated side-by-side and reviewing a half-completed decree against royalists from Marseille. Proportionally, Danton took up nearly two-thirds of the space, looking like an amoeba preparing to swallow Robespierre whole.

Danton did not raise his eyes from the page. "How the devil could we have seen it, Camille, you got it thirty seconds ago."

Camille scowled, but did not push the point. He had slung himself sideways across the chair in front of the desk, his legs dangling lazily over the right arm. He gestured with the letter again.

"It's from General Metz," he said, by way of explanation.

At this, Danton finally set down his pen and looked up. Robespierre smoothly rose from the desk, clasping his hands thoughtfully behind his back.

"The Austrian general?" Robespierre asked.

Camille snorted. "Do you know another General Metz?"

"What did he say?" Danton asked.

Camille shrugged, clearly relishing the feeling of having an audience. "It seems they've taken a rather interesting prisoner at the front. Wants to know if we'd be interested in ransoming him off."

"We would not be interested," Robespierre said coolly. "Who have they got?"

"Why, your dearly beloved old friend, Max," Camille said—Robespierre's lips tightened at the familiar nickname. "His Royalist Excellency himself, the marquis."

Robespierre's eyebrows lifted gently toward his hairline, like a ballerina stretching en pointe. "De Lafayette?" he asked.

Camille rolled his eyes. "No, de Sade. Of course I mean Lafayette."

Robespierre gave a soft "hmm" and paced toward the window, where the last glimpses of the setting sun had just vanished behind the rooftops of Paris.

"What was the idiot doing by the front?" he mused aloud, to no one in particular. "He should have known. Where was he going?"

Danton grinned. "If I give a damn, hang me from the nearest lamppost," he said, clapping his gargantuan hands together briskly. "That's one less thing to worry about. He'll have a hard time invading Paris while he's locked up in an Austrian cell. Do you think they'll kill him, Camille?"

"I don't think so," Camille said, as though they were discussing the weather and not the life of a man. "The Austrians are fond of their nobility. I imagine they'll keep him as long as they think they can get some use out of him."

"Word of this will get around, of course," Robespierre said thoughtfully. "But for the time being, I would advise against telling his wife."

Danton laughed. "What, you think the marquise will knife you through the heart in your bath?"

Robespierre's lips narrowed still further. "Believe me, Danton. I would not rule anything out."

#

 _6 September 1792  
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania_

President George Washington was not in the mood to be interrupted. It had been another one of those days when he woke up before dawn and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if perhaps his country had been better off under British rule. Not that he regretted the revolution, when he thought about it honestly. But on days like this, when his Cabinet was forever sniping at one another over tiny nuisances like a whiskey tax or how many banks the country should have, he couldn't help but remember how easy it had been, when running a country had been Parliament's problem.

At least then, there had always been someone to blame.

So when Secretary Jefferson knocked on his office door and entered without waiting for a response, Washington was not particularly disposed toward listening. He could think of an infinite number of things he'd rather do than listen to another thirty-minute rant from his Secretary of State about the ineffectiveness and insubordination of his Secretary of the Treasury. Like saw off his own leg, for instance.

Washington made a valiant effort to appear as if the papers spread in front of him were of the utmost national importance. In reality, they were the plans for an upcoming renovation of Mount Vernon, but he could think of no reason for Jefferson to know that.

"I'm sorry, Secretary, but this is not a good time," Washington said, not looking up from the desk. "Please make an appointment, and I would be happy to speak with you at a later—"

Washington flinched back as Jefferson's hand cracked down hard against the desk.

He stared, wordlessly, at the Secretary of State, who now had his full attention.

Jefferson's usual Southern languor had utterly disappeared. Fire sparked in his eyes now. If the desk had not separated him from Washington, the President would have been in moderate fear for his own safety. And—now that his initial surprise had faded, he suddenly noticed it—beneath his hand, Jefferson had slapped a letter down on the desk.

"I assume," Washington said, his gaze steely, "that this is addressed to me?"

"No," Jefferson said. "It was addressed to me. As the member of the American government most likely to care. But I thought you might like to read it."

Judging from the Secretary's tone, no, Washington would not like to read it. But there was no way out of this conversation other than the way Jefferson had provided. Warily, Washington took up the letter.

After reading the first line, he very nearly pushed the paper back, as if not reading it could deny the truth of the words. But these words would not be denied.

" _Secretary Jefferson,_

 _I regret to tell you that my husband, the Marquis de Lafayette, has been taken prisoner by the Austrian Army, during his attempt to flee a hostile Parisian police force with the stated intent of taking his life. He is currently, to the best of my knowledge, being held in Olmütz, in central Austria. The Austrian government will not release the Marquis without certain concessions from the French government, concessions which the French government is wholly uninterested in making._

 _In large part thanks to the inaction and ingratitude of your country, Secretary Jefferson, my husband may well be dead by the time you read this letter._

 _I do not hold you responsible, Secretary. I know you did everything in your power to change the minds of your countrymen, and for that I am grateful. But you might remind America's illustrious Secretary of the Treasury that I used to think I could rely on family_ _for such support. My own naiveté, I suppose._

 _I will not ask your country to intervene. My past attempts have clearly shown that my best ally in these matters is myself. I simply thought it right that you should know._

 _Yours,_

 _Margaret Schuyler du Motier, Marquise de Lafayette"_

Washington set down the letter, slowly. His hands, despite his best efforts, were shaking. Jefferson's anger clearly simmered less than an inch below the surface. It would take a good deal more than an emotional reaction to Peggy's letter to convince him to forgive the president. But it was a mark of the good nature underlying Jefferson's bombast and arrogance that he did not tell Washington "I told you so."

"When did you receive this?" Washington asked.

"This morning," Jefferson replied coolly.

"Good," Washington said. His voice sounded strained, as if it were coming from behind a closed door. "We have time, then. Who have you written to? The Austrian ambassador in Paris?"

Jefferson cocked a single eyebrow skyward. "Why, no one, sir," he remarked, turning to go. "I thought you made your policy of non-intervention in the French affair quite clear."

#

 _10 September 1792  
Paris_

There was a limit to the tears one woman could cry.

There was a limit to the days she could spend in bed, in a cold bed built for twice as many people as it now contained, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to collapse and crush her.

There was a limit to the ways one woman could come up with to painfully and slowly murder three governmental heads of state, barbaric jackals who celebrated the capture of a French citizen like a national holiday.

At a certain point, enough was enough.

Though the ache in her heart still pounded every time Peggy thought of Lafayette's face, heard his name, imagined the sound of his voice, she knew she could not sit still forever.

Something had to be done.

And so, that night, when Catherine had already gone to sleep and the rest of the house was silent, Peggy lit a single candle in her bedchamber, and walked silently to the wardrobe against the north wall of the master bedroom. The doors opened silently on their hinges, and she held the candle in one hand, examining the clothes hanging neatly in front of her with silent consideration.

 _He's taller than me, of course, but there's a quick fix for that._

To think Peggy had always believed her childhood lessons in needlework had been a waste of time.

Half an hour later, she had satisfactorily shortened the legs of an old pair of Lafayette's breeches and taken up the sleeves of his jacket. She pulled on a pair of boots, jammed a felt hat over her head, and—

And then paused, looking thoughtfully at the small table next to the bed, with its three small drawers looking invitingly back.

 _If you're going to do this, Peggy, do it right._

Before she could think better of it, Peggy crossed to the table, pulled open the top drawer, and unearthed the pistol Lafayette kept hidden there along with several cases of ammunition. She ran the pad of her thumb across the cool metal hammer, then nodded and tucked it into the pocket of her coat.

Peggy regarded herself in the mirror for a moment, assessing how convincing a figure she cut. Not that the streets of Paris were a safe place for anyone at the moment, but an unchaperoned woman after dark was at more of a disadvantage than most. Dressed this way, she might make it out of the city without anyone stopping her for questioning.

And once out of the city, she would have to be resourceful.

The road to Austria was not easy, after all. But some things were worth the risk.

Peggy reached once more into her pocket, self-consciously feeling the cold weight of the pistol, and then decisively blew out the candle. Her boots made no sound against the wood as she descended the stairs, and the door shut behind her with a soft click.


	19. Close Every Door

XIX.

 _13 September 1792  
Seneca, New York_

The end of summer, Eliza thought, was the best time to visit the lake. When the Schuyler sisters were children, their father had always preferred bringing the family out of Albany to their upstate lake house the very moment the weather first crossed the border into summer. At the beginning of June, the Finger Lakes would be swarming with liberated city-dwellers fleeing town for the season. There had been benefits to that, as children. Plenty of other children roaming the lakefront, the same families every year to swim with, climb trees with, run for their lives with after James McKinley smacked a hornet's nest with a stick just to see what would happen. But now that Eliza was older, with children of her own, the upstate quiet felt like a blessing, one she would not have traded for anything.

Although, if she were being honest with herself, it was slightly too quiet.

Two voices in particular should have been there, and were not.

With a small sigh, Eliza pulled her skirt just up above her knees, letting her bare feet dangle off the dock into the mild water of the lake. The ripples beneath her toes sparkled outward, catching the glare of the setting sun. Angelica, noticing the shift in her sister's mood, leaned her head on Eliza's shoulder.

"You're thinking about her again, aren't you," Angelica asked quietly.

Eliza sighed again. "Aren't you?"

"She loved the lake more than any of us," Angelica said, both answering and not answering the question. "Do you remember when I was ten and she was, what, six? When she built that raft with Frank Doyle and took it out to the center of the lake, pretending to be Blackbeard?"

Eliza laughed. "Peggy Schuyler, the most fearsome pirate in the Finger Lakes. Didn't they sink?"

"It was a raft built by two six-year-olds, of course they sank." Angelica grinned. "And Father shouted at her when she came home with her dress ruined, but she said—"

"'Papa, who cares about dresses when there's ships to pillage?'" Eliza finished. "My God, Peggy was a terror."

The weight of the word "terror" seemed to descend on both sisters at once. Angelica's grin lost its sparkle, and Eliza's eyes dipped back down to the water level. For all either of them knew, Peggy might still be in Paris, trapped in her husband's house while he rotted in an Austrian prison cell. Or she might have escaped, though Eliza couldn't decide whether that was more or less terrifying than house arrest.

"Peggy can take care of herself," Angelica said, though she seemed to be convincing herself as much as her sister. "Better than any of us. You know that."

"This isn't a sinking raft," Eliza said. "It's not something a contact with the Sons of Liberty can fix. This is a revolution gone to hell. She's only one person. She needs help."

"Have you…" Angelica began, then seemed to think better of the remainder of her sentence.

Eliza fixed her with a curious look.

 _If she can't finish that sentence without hesitating, I don't think I'm going to like what she has to say._

"Have I what?"

Angelica sighed, resigning herself to the consequences of finishing the question. "Have you talked to Alexander about intervening through Congress?"

Eliza's expression could have frozen the lake solid in a heartbeat. "The honorable Secretary of the Treasury and I," she replied, "are not currently on speaking terms."

Wincing, Angelica sat up straight, resting her weight on her hands. She was taller than Eliza, and her feet were fully submerged in the lake, gently tracing a half-circle with her toe. Eliza's mind went immediately to drowning, though she refused to follow the train of thought through to the end.

"Your husband couldn't take three days to spend the summer with his family," Angelica said.

"Lafayette wrote to him, did you know?" Eliza's hands curled into fists as she spoke—fortunate, perhaps, that there was nothing within thirty yards for her to hit. "At least four times over the past year. Warned him of everything that was going to happen. Asked him for help. And you know what my husband did?"

Eliza did not answer her own question, but then, she did not really need to.

"It's all for the best that he didn't come," she finished. "I can't look at him anymore. I can't listen to the sound of his pen on the page. I can't listen to him arguing with himself until three in the morning, talking to the walls about national banks, when our sister and her husband might be dead."

Angelica snapped around to look at Eliza directly, a dangerous light in her eyes. "They're not dead," she said fiercely. "Don't say that. They're not."

 _How can you possibly know?_

"Mama!"

Eliza closed her eyes, took a long breath, and looked over her shoulder. John and William, aged nine and seven respectively, were tearing down the hill from the house, both in a tremendous state of agitation. It only took Eliza half a moment to see why—Will was holding most of a stuffed bear, but John was holding the head, stuffing spilling out from the fraying neck. She spared a sideways glance at her sister, who grinned.

"Mother of eight is a full-time job, isn't it?" Angelica asked.

"I hope you didn't have any plans for this evening," Eliza said with a sigh, as she stood, shaking the water from her feet and walking back toward the house. "It looks like I'll be performing emergency surgery on a bear."

#

 _7 October 1792  
Olmütz, Austria_

Lafayette groaned softly as he awoke, but did not open his eyes. There was no point. The longer he kept his eyes tight shut, the longer he could pretend to be somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

The hard stone against his aching back could have been his uncomfortable bunk on the Triton, bearing him from New York to Brest. The chill settling into his bones could have been the bitter cold of Valley Forge, surrounded by friends, a cause to fight for, a letter from Peggy beneath his pillow.

But the further he drifted from the remnants of his dream, the less he could pretend. The fantasy showed threadbare, pathetic even, faced with the reality coalescing around him.

Quietly, he opened his eyes and sat up. Here in his tiny cell, deep underground in the dungeons of Olmütz, he had no way of telling the time. The room was fully stone, smooth slate slabs that blended seamlessly from wall to floor to ceiling. No break from a window, not even from a lamp.

The first day of Lafayette's imprisonment, he had sat cross-legged in the center of a cell as black as the inside of his closed eyelids, staring into the void, frantically praying for his vision to adjust. The darkness had been more frightening than the threat of the Austrians. Anything could have hidden in that impenetrable black. Gradually, his eyes had adapted, pupils yawning catlike wide to give him his current view. A bleak stone cell, no bed, no furniture, no sound, just a wooden bucket to piss in standing in the corner.

To be honest, not much of an improvement on the darkness.

Lafayette let out a long breath and hugged his knees into his chest for warmth. The weather had taken a sharp turn since Lafayette had been brought to Austria, the temperature in his cell plunging twenty degrees almost overnight. His captors had stripped him of his uniform after marching him into the prison. Apparently French soldiers were not alone in needing decent clothing, and by now Lafayette's coat and boots likely clothed a Viennese cavalryman.

They'd provided him with the basics, a white linen shirt and navy breeches that had clearly seen at least a decade of wear. (Lafayette did not like to think about their previous owner, or what had likely happened to him.) Barefoot and jacketless, he felt his body trembling from cold. Had the light been better, he might have been able to see his breath.

At least it would have been something to look at.

Without light, without warmth, without another living soul except the rats he could hear skittering in the corner of his cell, time passed strangely. He was awake, but couldn't tell if it were noon or midnight, September or February, if he'd been locked underground for six days or twenty years.

So when he heard, at last, footsteps on the other side of his cell door, every nerve in his body hummed in response.

He rose to his feet—too fast, he realized with a soft curse, as all the blood rushed rapidly to his head. He swayed dangerously before righting himself. Not that he expected he'd be able to fight them off, whoever they were. Not when he'd been living off scraps in a darkened cage for God knew how long. But if they were going to overpower him, the least he could do was to take it standing.

The sound of clanging keys jarred harsh outside the door. It stabbed through Lafayette's ears, so accustomed to the silence. And then the door opened, admitting an Austrian guard, holding a torch. It was like a comet directly in Lafayette's eyes. Light that once would have seemed dim now burned straight through him, leaving scorch marks on the back of his skull. He gave a small yelp of pain and threw up a hand to shield his eyes.

The guard chuckled softly to himself.

"You're the rogue general of France?" he remarked in German. "Don't look like much, do you?"

Lafayette tried to speak, but it had been so long since his throat had made comprehensible sounds. Nothing came out, nothing but breath. But the guard wasn't interested in anything he had to say.

He stepped forward, taking hold of Lafayette by the front of his shirt.

"You're coming with me, monsieur," he said, his harsh accent making the French word sound profane. "General Metz wants a word. And don't try anything funny. You're not so important that I wouldn't enjoy gutting you like a fish, if you ask for it."

"Noted." Lafayette's voice sounded like an unoiled wheel, a rusty cart dragged across gravel.

The guard looked like he would have enjoyed slapping Lafayette, but composed himself just in time. "Come on," he said, and dragged Lafayette forward by the front of his shirt into the corridor.

The cell door slammed shut behind them.

Lafayette's mind raced in a thousand directions at once. This was the first time he had been let out of his cell since his imprisonment, the first time he'd seen full light. What had changed? Where were they taking him? His sense of direction had collapsed in tandem with his sense of time—they could have been climbing up toward the sunlight, or descending deeper into the underbelly of Olmütz. And what would they do with him, wherever he was going? A transfer? Were they selling him off? Or had they decided that keeping him alive was no longer worth the effort, and would he soon be pleading for his life from the wrong end of a noose?

He tried to break free of the guard's grip— _and do what? Go where?_ —but the man had flung open a door and shoved Lafayette through it, so hard that he stumbled and nearly fell. He barely had time to catch his balance before he was pushed forward into a chair. The guard snatched up a pair of manacles from the desk in front of Lafayette and snapped one tight around his prisoner's left wrist, passing the chain beneath the arm of the chair before securing Lafayette's right.

 _Damn. No. Not like this. Not trapped like a fox in a snare. Waiting for the dogs._

He tried to rise, to pull his wrists free, but it was no use. In a growing panic, Lafayette whipped his head over his shoulder, but the guard had already begun to leave.

"Be patient," the man said with an unkind smile. "Someone will be by for you, I expect."

The slam of a door, and then Lafayette was alone again.

Warily, he looked forward, eyes sweeping across the room. They must have been traveling up after all—he now found himself in a well-furnished office, plainly above-ground. Before him, a sturdy oaken desk, a set of half-filled bookcases, a map of Austria, Switzerland, and France spread across the desk's surface. Large windows along the left wall, windows that despite the thick curtains still let in enough light to sting.

 _Not a transfer, then. Not an exchange. So…_

Lafayette craned around as best he could in the chair. The sound of the door opening set his whole body on edge. He turned just in time to see the bayonet-straight posture and insidious smirk of General Metz as he entered the office.

"Monsieur le marquis," he said, and crossed the room to lean easily against the desk, less than a foot from Lafayette. "You look well this afternoon. How kind of you to join me for a chat."

"What do you want from me?" Lafayette held his voice as steady as a pistol in a duel.

Fear rose within him with each heartbeat, but he forced his mind roughly away from it. Fear would be the end of him. Fear would destroy him. He imagined the sensation of Peggy's hand in his, conjured up the echo of her voice soft in his ear.

 _Stay alive. Whatever you do, stay alive._

An impossible proposition, in many ways. But even if he failed, he would go down fighting.

"You appreciate, I am sure, the delicate position I am in," Metz said—Lafayette, his attention sharpened by the comfort of memory, narrowed in on each word. "I do not particularly want to hurt you. I don't care about you at all, as a matter of fact. But our countries are at war, marquis. And you have information that I need. Badly."

 _Information?_ For a moment, Lafayette was certain he'd misheard. What information did Metz think the Robespierrists would share with Lafayette?

"I want us to work together, marquis," Metz went on smoothly. "You will tell me what I want to know. And in return, I will ensure that you are returned to your people with all possible expedience."

 _All_ possible _expedience._ Lafayette clearly heard the cruel wink in the qualifying word. His freedom was impossible, until the war was over, unless he gave Metz what he wanted. And, though Metz didn't know it, Lafayette had no information to bargain with. He closed his eyes, finding himself longing suddenly for the dark seclusion of his cell. At least the darkness was predictable.

"May I ask you my questions, marquis?"

Lafayette had never been asked permission for anything with so much mockery, with so much scorn. When he opened his eyes, Metz was grinning like Christmas morning.

"Ask."

"How many French troops are currently camped on the border with Germany?"

Lafayette paused. "I don't know."

Metz frowned, his mustache twitching in irritation. "You don't know."

"As I said."

"You are a general of the French army, and you expect me to believe you don't know."

Lafayette had no energy for, and no interest in, an argument. "I do not expect you to believe anything. But whether or not you believe it, it is the truth."

Metz took a step forward and placed one hand on either arm of Lafayette's chair, leaning forward until barely three inches separated their faces. Lafayette could feel the Austrian general's hot breath against his skin.

"And I imagine you want me to believe you don't know the location of your army's next strike either."

Lafayette's bold, silent stare did not contradict him.

"Monsieur Lafayette," Metz said, with patience that landed like poison. "I do not think you fully understand the position that you are in. I have been polite to you thus far. Given you clothes, food, a roof above your head. But my men, they have no great love for the French. And, as I say, I genuinely do not care what happens to you."

Metz leaned back against the desk once again, but his eyes still drilled directly through Lafayette. He clung to the imagined sound of Peggy's voice, the only anchor against the riptide of his panic.

 _Stay alive, love. Just stay alive._

"I know you have the information we need, marquis," Metz went on, voice growing colder by the syllable. "And while my men and I have ways of forcing you to give it to us, I would rather not use them. So. Shall I ask again?"

If his life were important, Lafayette might have made up a lie in an attempt to save it. But false information would seal his fate even more surely than staying silent would. He spoke again with a voice level as a firing squad.

"You can lock me away forever, if you want. You can do what you want with me. But the fact remains that I do not know. And I would not tell a dog like you, General Metz, even if I did."

The violent movement of Metz's mustache reflected the agitation he fought to suppress in every other part of his bearing. For a moment, Lafayette thought Metz might take the pistol from his belt and shoot him straight through the chest, _with all possible expedience_. But after a long moment, Metz strode past Lafayette and flung open the door to the office, where the waiting guard snapped to attention.

"Take the marquis de Lafayette back to his cell," he snarled. "See he receives no food and no water for the next forty-eight hours."

"Yes, general," the guard said.

"Once your fast is done, marquis," Metz tossed back over his shoulder at Lafayette, "perhaps you will have the clarity of mind to make me a better answer."

In moments, the guard had unchained Lafayette from the chair and forced him from the room, closing the door behind.

Repressed fear soaring back through his body left Lafayette a passenger in his own body, observing as if from a great distance. The guard unlocked the door to Lafayette's cell and shoved him in the small of his back, hard enough that he fell forward, barely catching himself with his hands.

The door slammed shut.

Nothing but darkness, and the pounding of his own heart, and the skittering of a rat somewhere in the shadows.

 _God help me, Peggy. Don't let me die here._


	20. Keep Your Flame

Would you look at that? An update that didn't take thirty years! This is like lightspeed for me :)

After that last chapter, I felt like we could all use a little fluff. Because it's the holidays, and I swore by the alligator that Lafayette gave John Quincy Adams* that I was gonna get to the fluffy bit soon, and there's no time like the present.

Anyway, enjoy this short-ish segment, and since I probably won't be back with an update until early next year, good riddance to the never-ending dumpster fire that was 2016.

*Look it up. This alligator is my favorite historical fact of all time. Because Lafayette _would._

* * *

XX.

 _11 February 1793_

When Lafayette heard the sound of footsteps beyond his cell door, he did not even blink. Five months in a prison cell had damaged his capacity to be surprised.

The guards' visits to his cell were not regular, but each time they happened, they were identical. A plate of food dropped to the ground. A series of insults in German. And then he would be alone again. General Metz' visits were rarer still, but no less formulaic. Questions that Lafayette could not and would not answer, threats that could be made good on at any time. No reason to expend energy reacting to any of this before it happened. Better to conserve his strength for when it was actually needed.

He remained lying on his back on the floor, hands folded behind his head, legs outstretched. A childish pose, he though vaguely, and remembered lying this way in the fields of Chavaniac, seeing knights and dragons in the clouds before Catherine arrived, shouting at him for evading his tutor yet again.

Losing himself in the swell of the memory, he barely noticed when the door to his cell opened, admitting a guard who stowed a torch in the bracket on the wall.

"As I said," the guard snapped, as though explaining a very simple fact to a very dull person, "alive and well, and unharmed. Much good may that do you."

Lafayette's brain snagged on the words. The guard was speaking to someone. Someone who had not been here before. And as far as Lafayette was concerned, a newcomer could bring nothing but trouble. Warily, he sat up and shifted to face the door.

In that moment, Lafayette lost all knowledge of words. He had spoken four languages fluently at one point, but currently did not even know his own name. He stared, blankly, stupidly, at the pair standing at the door.

The guard, a scowl bearing down his broad face.

And beside him, wearing an expression that Lafayette was sure mirrored his own, stood Peggy.

A dream.

It had to be a dream.

But no matter how many times he blinked, no matter how hard he stared, she remained stubbornly present. Hair tied back from her face, clothes—his clothes, he realized dully—worn and mud-splattered with travel. Real. She had to be real.

They stared at each other, neither paying the guard any attention as he left, slamming and locking the door behind them.

Lafayette rose hesitantly to his feet. His hands were shaking. His brain had forgotten how to think.

"Peggy," he whispered—regaining only the silhouette of his own voice. "Peggy, how…"

"Lafayette," she said.

And before either of them could complete a sentence, Peggy had pulled her husband into the closest embrace one person had ever given another. He collapsed into her arms and wept. Wept while his head hummed empty and his heart soared with a sudden, painful excess of feeling, joy and love and relief and the sense of taking a full breath of air for the first time in months. Her embrace was almost defensive, like someone might steal him away from her if she were ever to let go.

It might have been minutes or days before their embrace faded. When Peggy looked at Lafayette, it was with the smile he'd painted in his mind every day for five months. Sadder, shadowed around the edges. But the same.

"You're alive," she said, almost in disbelief. "You're alive."

"You gave me one job," he said, finding proper words at last. "Don't get myself killed. I've tried to oblige."

It was the most like himself that Lafayette had sounded in months. And the shadow on Peggy's smile disappeared. She looked to him then like the young woman of ninenteen who had approached him across a crowded Albany ballroom.

"You've always been so obliging," she said, grinning. "Oblige me this?"

And they kissed—the kiss of Orpheus and Eurydice, a kiss across the underworld, across an imagined death so tangible that finding it false felt like a resurrection. Lafayette tasted heaven on her lips.

Overcome with surprise, he sank to the ground. Peggy sat beside him, holding tight to his hands all the while.

"Peggy," Lafayette said weakly, "how did you get here?"

"I've just been to see the King of Austria," she said.

As if that explained anything.

Lafayette stared. "I beg your pardon?"

"What, you think I can't smooth-talk my way into a king's presence without help from you?"

"Do you even speak German?" It was nowhere near the question Lafayette actually wanted to ask, but in his current stupefied state it was the only thing that came to mind.

Peggy shrugged. "Not a word. But that's the thing about kings, isn't it? They have translators. And really, at the end of the day, my message was quite simple."

Lafayette paused. "Love, I know that tone. I do not trust that tone. What in God's name did you tell the king?"

"Only that if I wasn't granted permission to see you, I'd make sure the French burned the Austrian countryside to the ground."

Lafayette blinked several times—though of course his disbelief was with his hearing, not his sight. "And he believed you?"

"Trust me," Peggy said grimly. "I made sure of it."

He stared at her for a long moment, before his face broke into the first genuine smile he could remember in the last five months. The unfamiliar motion ached in his muscles, like a toothache from too much sweetness.

"You are a threat to be reckoned with," he said. "And my God, I have never been so happy to see someone in all my life."

"And I won't leave you," she said. "Never again."

The smile on Lafayette's face dimmed. Surely she did not mean that literally. The consequences of their situation descended on his consciousness all at once, startling him out of speech. The cold stone walls of his cell. The dim, too-transient light from the dying torch that would soon give way to darkness. The hunger in his belly that, forgotten until now, roared forward with a vengeance. He had a hundred questions to ask, each more horrified than the last. But in the end, all he managed was a simple, stunned "What?"

Peggy, realizing he had not understood—or had refused to understand—spoke gently. "How did you think I got permission to see you?" she asked. "They couldn't risk my organizing an escape with someone from the outside. And they're right to worry," Peggy added, attempting to lighten the mood. "I already had a plan. Angelica and her husband might still come through. We corresponded while I was staying in Vienna."

But Lafayette's concerns would not be put off. Not even for an escape attempt, though he had plenty of clarifying questions on that score for a later date.

"Are you saying…"

"They wouldn't let me visit. They would only let me stay."

As a fellow prisoner. Locked away for God knew how long, under imagined charges no one could fight. What had felt until now like a miracle had suddenly twisted into a curse. But Peggy, sensing the turn of his thoughts, gripped his hand harder.

"Which is what I wanted," she said defiantly. "Wherever you are, that's where I want to be. Without you, the whole world is a prison. With you, a prison cell is home."

 _No. God be damned, you've already cried like a child in front of your wife once. That's more than enough for one day._

"What book of poetry did you steal that from?" he asked, hoping to hide behind the mask of his tone.

Peggy rolled her eyes. " _Poems for Women Whose Husbands Repress Their Feelings,_ " she drawled.

He laughed and, rather than be betrayed by words again, kissed her with the language of a thousand poems.

Lafayette couldn't have said how long they sat together, Peggy nestled into the curve of his side, leaning against the cell wall. The distortion of time underground had not lessened, but, abruptly, he found he did not mind. She fit so well against him, belonged so naturally beside him, that ten minutes or nineteen years would both have been too short. Time didn't matter, so long as she was next to him, speaking to him, her voice and her laughter slicing the darkness.

Laughter. That was the impossible thing about Peggy. Even here, even now, she found a way to laugh. And found a way—more surreal still—to make him laugh as well.

He had little of value to say to her, he found; the story of his capture had taken all of five minutes to relate, and she could see the entirety of his daily life since then just by looking around. But Peggy overflowed with stories. Of the latest news from New York and Philadelphia. Of the harebrained escape attempt Angelica and John Church had hatched together—utterly useless, and which would have resulted in certain death had Lafayette followed through with it, but a touching gesture all the same.

And, of course, the newest developments from Paris.

He wanted to stop listening, as her narrative turned to the subject of the September Massacres. The mass executions of political prisoners in every jail in Paris, led by Robespierre and his jaundiced demagogue Marat. Peggy saw the look of nausea roll across Lafayette's face and hesitated, but he urged her to finish with a sharp jerk of his head. And, hesitantly, she told him everything.

The screams, drifting day and night from Châtelet, from Saint-German-des-Près. The bodies piled high in the streets and prison courtyards, stacked like skulls walled up in catacombs. Crows circling. The stink of death reaching all the way to heaven, if heaven and such a stink could both exist at the same time.

 _If they'd caught you in Paris. If Peggy hadn't warned you in time. If she'd been half an hour later._

 _That would have been you._

Lafayette felt his stomach turn. He gripped Peggy's hand tightly, a well of strength to draw from.

"Vampires," he muttered under his breath, fighting back the nausea with words. "Robespierre and the rest, all of them vampires. Growing stronger with the blood of their people. Was this the revolution they wanted?"

"I think it was," Peggy said quietly. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. But I knew you would want to hear."

He closed his eyes, feeling much older than he was, and impossibly tired. "I do want to hear. All of it. God alone knows why."

God knew, and, though he would never admit it to his wife, Lafayette knew too.

He'd lost both his parents as a child, and had been brought up in the military tradition of the French aristocracy. With this cold, practical environment shaping him, Lafayette had only ever loved two things with his undivided heart and soul: Peggy Schuyler, and his country. The former he had, and had him, an impossible Gordian knot of possession and surrender that sent vertigo spiraling into his brain the longer he thought about it. The latter…

It was like watching the death of a parent. Their body crumbling, worn into dust and corrupted by decay, yet still, somewhere, the same idol you had always loved.

The utopia turned terror.

 _A man should be lucky enough to love one person entirely over the course of a life. Trying for two is foolishness._

Lafayette laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head. Peggy pulled back to look at him as though her husband had broken entirely with reality.

"What in God's name are you laughing at?" she asked.

Lafayette suddenly realized how unsettling it must be from Peggy's perspective, segueing from the September Massacres to self-deprecating laughter without a pause.

"I was thinking about what Washington would think, if he saw me now and knew what I was thinking," he admitted. "And I know just what he'd say, too," he added with a grin. "'Son, why are you determined to make yourself unhappy? Pull yourself together. Martyrs make poor husbands.'"

He knew his impression of Washington's languid Virginian accent had been an absolute disgrace, but he didn't think that fully explained Peggy's scowl.

"Don't you hate him?" she asked, as if only an affirmative answer could be possible. "After what he did?"

 _Or didn't do._

The same pang of disappointment twinged in Lafayette's chest, but he ignored it as best he could. With Peggy leaning beside him, it was an easier trick to manage.

"I don't. Not really. How could I hate anyone, Peggy, when you are here with me? I no longer have the capacity to hate anyone."

Peggy grinned, pushing his hair lightly off his forehead. He shivered at her touch—for a change, not from the cold.

"What I said earlier, love, about your repressed emotions?" she said. "Ignore that. You're the most sentimental creature I've ever seen on two legs."

"Guilty," Lafayette admitted with a shrug. "I am French, after all."

The kiss that followed on the heels of this statement occupied their attention so entirely that neither of them noticed the Austrian guard who had just entered the cell. Not, that is, until he coughed loudly behind them, projecting his discomfort into the room. Lafayette glanced over his shoulder, and could barely hide a laugh. He hadn't seen a man so uncomfortable since his days in the Continental Army, when a drunken Alexander had launched into a loud and spirited discussion of his latest romantic liaison and scandalized Aaron Burr to within an inch of his life.

Peggy raised an eyebrow, glancing at the guard. "Does one not knock in Austria?" she asked.

"I…er…" The poor guard fumbled with the beginning of a sentence for a moment, before coming up pathetically short. Lafayette wanted to laugh, but breaking at this point would cost him the advantage. He bit his tongue, forcing his expression to remain stoic.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone frosty. "Unless you stopped by simply for a chat."

The guard cleared his throat again. "I have an order from His Majesty the King of Austria."

"Have you?" Lafayette countered. "As you might remember, my countrymen do not currently put much stock in kings."

Peggy glanced at him, plainly torn between wanting to laugh and wondering how on Earth she had possibly married a man this stupid.

"And what order is that?" she prompted, when the guard did not seem likely to continue.

The guard shifted his weight to the opposite leg, looking at neither Lafayette nor Peggy. "His Majesty says that, in light of the recent change of circumstances—"

"In light of me, you mean," Peggy added.

"In light of the circumstances," the guard pressed on, as if she hadn't spoken, "your current situation is no longer appropriate. A room has been prepared for you upstairs, where you will be held for the duration of your captivity."

Lafayette stared. This was simply too much shock for one day. The word "room," and the world of difference between a room and a cell, had thrown his brain into a loop that he could not comprehend.

 _A room. Upstairs. Light._

 _And Peggy._

 _Lord God, I do not know what I did to deserve this, but I promise you, I will do twenty times more to thank you._

Peggy gently dug her shoulder into Lafayette's side, a soft gesture hinting at an embrace to come when they were next alone. "We thank His Majesty for his consideration."

"If you would follow me?" the guard said stiffly.

Peggy rose to her feet, then extended a hand and helped Lafayette to his. He looked around his cell one final time, this tiny stone tomb that had been the entirety of his world for nearly half a year. And then, Peggy at his side, a lightness in his heart that felt almost unearthly, he followed the guard out of the cell, and toward the light of day.

It was not freedom. It was not even close. But in that moment, he could not think to ask for anything more.


	21. Bring Him Home

So as of press time, y'all, I have finally seen Hamilton. With my own two mortal eyes. I had more thoughts and feelings and emotions in that three-hour span than I probably get through in the average year. I feel privileged to even write unofficial, absolute-nonsense fanfic about this show. It's not a show you watch, it's a show you _behold._

Also, if you haven't heard Chris Lee, the Chicago Lafayette/Jefferson, go listen to anything of his you can find. He is a gift from the Lord on High. (Also, I am older than he is. What.) Someone give that guy all the awards. Tony, Grammy, Nobel Peace Prize, a goddamn British knighthood, I don't care. Just all of them.

*clears throat* Anyway. Let's go.

* * *

XXI.

Lafayette stood stunned in front of the doorway, looking around in silence. Peggy glanced at him, nervous, then took both of his hands.

"Come on," she said softly, "sit. It's all right."

 _All right_ was relative, of course, but the anchor of her words seemed to be the nudge he needed. He moved mutely under her touch, an automaton struck speechless by the sudden difference in their surroundings. The room was no palace, but Peggy knew Lafayette was overwhelmed by the change, and followed the movement of his eyes to judge why. The bed, two woolen blankets stretched across its length. A chair. The small table beside it, with a worn Bible resting on its surface. And the tiny window, two feet by four inches, allowing a rectangle of sunlight to shine across the floor.

The way his eyes lingered on the light, so much that he did not even notice the door lock again behind them, made Peggy want to cry. Or to hold him forever, until she absorbed the edges of his darkness, leaving him whole again.

 _How long would they have kept him in that cage, if I hadn't been here?_

Lafayette sat on the edge of the bed, pulling one of the blankets around his shoulders like a cloak. He still shivered slightly, but the wool took off the edge.

"I should warn you," he said, as Peggy sat beside him. "They will likely question you. Like they have questioned me."

A series of wild images flashed through Peggy's mind: interrogation, torture, medieval dungeons with echoing screams and creaking iron. She swallowed heavily, trying not to let Lafayette see her fear. She'd known what she was getting into, when she agreed to the Austrians' terms. Now was not the time to get cold feet. If he could do this, she could do this.

"Question me about what?" she asked.

"The French army's movements. Its plans. Its commanders." He shrugged, bitterness dripping from the movement. "Other things I know nothing about. If you do not know, you do not know. I only wanted you to be prepared."

"I'm a Schuyler," she said, with confidence she did not yet feel. "Schuylers are always prepared."

"Is that so?" he asked, a smile warming the coldness in his eyes. "I have said this before, Peggy, but some days I wonder whether you should have been the soldier, not me."

She shook her head, ducking a shoulder beneath the blanket, nestling into the curve of his side. "You know what your problem is?" she asked.

The look Lafayette gave her in response could not have contained more faux-weariness if he'd tried. "No, love. Tell me what my problem is. I _yearn_ to know."

"You're too idealistic," she said. "You expect other men to behave reasonably, to do what's right, to fight for truth and honor above all."

He rolled his eyes—a gesture that reminded her of a hundred other evenings they'd spent, in taverns or in parlors, in a constellation of different bedrooms shimmering across the sky of their marriage, teasing and taking the teasing in turn.

"You make me sound like a child, Peggy. I hope you do not think I am that stupid."

"No," she said, and pressed closer beside him. "I think you're a good man. The best of men, and best of husbands. I wish we lived in a world that was good enough for you."

Melodramatic as it sounded, she meant it. Being the youngest of three sisters had its privileges, among them the knowledge of what not to look for in a husband. Angelica had landed with a distant, insipid gentleman, one who could provide for her financially but in no other way. Eliza had tried to trap lightning in a bottle, marrying a man more in love with the shape of his own incandescent ideas than the world around him. Third time's the charm, they said, and as Lafayette shook his head in quiet exasperation and kissed her, she had to agree.

A thought occurred to her, an island of perfect clarity amid the sea of that kiss. A thought so stupid that she recognized its stupidity even before she'd finished thinking it, the bad idea to end all bad ideas. And yet, at the same time, it would not go away.

She laughed, suffusing the kiss with laughter. Not self-deprecating laughter at her own poor decision-making. But joy. Joy at the impossible perfection of the idea, no less perfect for its stupidity.

Lafayette pulled back, looking at her curiously.

"Peggy?" he asked. "What are you thinking about?"

She paused, looking for the right words to bring up the subject. Why were the right words never there when you needed them?

"If I tell you," she said cautiously, "promise you'll let me finish. And promise you won't be angry."

Lafayette cocked his head to one side, skepticism apparent in every inch of his expression. "Peggy, will I like what you are asking?"

"I'm not asking anything," she protested. "I'm…I'm raising a possibility. To gauge your response."

"Gauge away," he said, his skepticism not lessening an inch.

"Now, don't be angry with me, love," she said. "I don't mean it seriously."

Lafayette's eyebrows lifted delicately to his hairline. "All right, Peggy," he said. "I am sufficiently concerned now. You may ask the question."

He folded his legs in front of him, leaning his back against the cold wall of their new prison. He was listening, of course. But one wrong move and she could lose that willingness to listen, the potential of his agreement, in a matter of seconds.

"I was just thinking," she began, "about when you and I visited the Burrs. About when Aaron let you hold Theodosia. How happy that child looked. And how in love with her you seemed to be. How natural you looked with her."

"Peggy," Lafayette interrupted, clearly sensing the turn of this conversation. But Peggy, once she'd worked up the courage to begin, would not be shut down.

"And I just felt, then, and I feel now, that…that we ought to have a family at some point."

Lafayette stared. For a moment, Peggy was afraid he had completely lost the power of speech. That she had struck him mute and paralyzed, and he would never move again from the shock. After a long pause, during which she wished twenty times she could escape, he cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice still carried a level of strain.

"Peggy, are you asking what I think you are asking?"

"I'm not asking. I told you."

"Are you raising the possibility of what I think you are raising the possibility of?" he countered, without missing a beat.

His expression was strange, one she had never seen before. Between the shadows in his face and the stiffness of his posture, she could not tell whether he was considering the idea or marveling at its wrongness. She felt the blood rush to her face, and fumbled for the words that could save her humiliation and his discomfort. Why didn't she ever think before she spoke? Why wasn't she as careful as Eliza, as forward-thinking as Angelica? Why did she always have to say what she was thinking?

"Lafayette, I just wanted to say it. I've been thinking of it, but I know now isn't the time, that…"

"Because if that is what you're asking, Peggy, my answer is yes."

Now it was Peggy's turn to feel a shock so complete she thought her heart might tumble out of her chest. Lafayette sat still with his back against the wall, but the strangeness had melted away from his face. He smiled at her, that old spark dancing in his eyes. The spark that could have preceded a reckless bayonet charge at a line of British soldiers, or three too many drinks and an impromptu out-of-season bout of Christmas caroling beneath Charles Lee's window, or a locked bedroom door and an evening with Peggy that somehow stretched into the next afternoon. It was the look of a man who knows he is making a reckless decision, and yet who knows that nothing will bring him more joy, more meaning, more purpose than the stupid and ill-advised thing he is about to do.

He took Peggy's hands in his, speaking calmly, yet with a smile curling the edge of every word.

"Peggy. If there is one thing I know from all my years of loving you, it is that tomorrow is impossible to know for certain. Tomorrow we may rule Europe together, or tomorrow I may be dead, or tomorrow you may be an ocean away from me. The only thing I know is that I will always, always love you. I want to watch our family grow. And waiting for the right moment is absurd."

"Because you'll always be flinging yourself headfirst into some dangerous scenario," Peggy agreed—feeling herself on the brink of tears, and not quite knowing why.

"And you will always be doing the same, Madame I've-Just-Punched-Camille-Desmoulins-In-The-Face," Lafayette added, grinning. "The point is that we may never have a safe moment to try. This may be the safest moment we ever get. And rather than losing the chance of starting a family with you, I would run any risk a hundred times over."

Now the tears were present, and damn it all, Peggy did not even care. This wild dream, this impossible hope, suddenly out between them, and the glow of his smile as he heard her wish and said yes, that it was his as well. It was too much, too sudden, all at once. She hugged him close to her, and he held her with hands that did not shake.

His heartbeat against her ear was like a prayer, a promise of safety. She let the rhythm fill her, pulse in time with her own heart, with the tidal movement of her brain, with the motion of two people in perfect synchronicity.

A prison had never felt so full of possibility.

#

 _24 August 1793  
_ _Mount Vernon, Virginia_

How many times, during the cold winters of New York, during the dull rain of Philadelphia, had Washington dreamed of summer at Mount Vernon? He could not count, and did not wish to. The air hung perfectly balanced, cool in its stillness, the distant song of a mockingbird in the grove of trees not far from the house. An almost-autumn hush, when thought slowed to a molasses crawl. Indolence seemed naturally suited to the pace of things.

Washington sat on the steps of the wide wooden veranda, watching as the colors of dusk faded and the sparks of lightning bugs pinpricked through the dimming sky. A lit pipe smoldered in his right hand, but he seemed to have forgotten about it. Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten about most things, and leaned into the forgetfulness as a kind of bliss.

When two sets of footsteps approached behind him, Washington did not even seem to hear. Only when Martha cleared her throat did he notice. Not for several long seconds after that did he turn.

"Secretary Hamilton to see you," Martha said coldly. Not out of disdain for her husband, but from a very clear desire to have the secretary thrown from the premises like a common criminal.

Laughing quietly to himself, Washington turned to give his wife a tired, indulgent smile of a long-married man. Behind Martha, Alexander's slim figure was barely visible. To be fair, he seemed to be doing his absolute damnedest to disappear.

"Thank you, Martha," Washington said, gesturing for Alexander to sit beside him on the stair. "We won't be long."

"I should hope not," Martha muttered. She disappeared back into the house, as if convinced the Treasury Secretary would make an attempt on her virtue if she stayed three minutes more in his presence.

Awkwardly, Alexander sat beside Washington. For a man born in the Caribbean, the Treasury Secretary always seemed profoundly uncomfortable out of doors. The air of anxiety radiating from him was certainly not from the Virginian air alone, however. But Washington reasoned the younger man would get to that when he got to it. And in any case, it was far too pleasant an evening to ruin with probing questions.

"I'm sorry to trouble you at home, Mr. President," Alexander began. "I know these are your two weeks of vacation, but…"

"But you were in the neighborhood and thought you would drop by?" Washington asked with a knowing smirk. "New York and Mount Vernon are essentially neighbors, after all."

Alexander looked away. Thanks to his characteristic terror of silence, he immediately began speaking, far too many words than were required of him.

"I had to leave New York for a few days. To clear my head. You see, sir, I…I think I've made a terrible mistake, Mr. President. It's not financial, my records are clean, but it's of a deeply personal nature. And I—"

Washington held up a hand, stopping Alexander before he truly got underway. If there was one thing worse than having his solitude interrupted by the unexpected arrival of politicians, it was hearing the sordid details of Alexander Hamilton's latest torrid affair. That kind of talk belonged in the gossip-ridden streets of New York City, not the sloping fields of Virginia.

"Son, just sit. Enjoy the silence. Think for a few minutes before you speak. For a change."

"But sir, I think you should know," Alexander protested—Washington raised his eyes to the heavens for patience. "As a member of your cabinet, my actions in this affair could permanently tarnish your reputation, unless you protect yourself."

Washington laughed, shaking his head as the lightning bugs thickened on the grass. "My reputation? Trust me, I can do enough damage to that without your help."

Alexander frowned, plainly not catching the meaning. Washington almost envied him that fixed sense of purpose. Not to detect fault in anything you could justify by reason. Not to feel guilt over things that were done, and could not have been helped.

"What do you mean, sir?"

Remembering the pipe in his hand, Washington sighed and took a long pull of tobacco. The smoke curled away from the veranda, stretching thin translucent fingers toward the dying light.

"Lafayette," Washington said simply. "I can't stop thinking about him."

"Sir," Alexander said, "you can't blame yourself for what happened. You did what was best for the country."

"Secretary Jefferson thinks I betrayed Lafayette," Washington said, ignoring Alexander's words completely.

"Sir—"

"Secretary Jefferson is right."

Another long breath of smoke filled the long silence before Washington spoke again, his voice curiously blank.

"I pray every night for God to bring him home. Every night. And every night, I wonder if God is ignoring me, because everything that happened to him is our fault."

To this, and for the first time Washington could remember, Alexander Hamilton had nothing to say.

#

 _18 September 1793  
_ _Olmütz, Austria_

"Are you sure?"

Peggy had to laugh at the look of wide-eyed wonder on Lafayette's face. Like a child on Christmas morning, more earnest enthusiasm than she had ever seen in a grown man. Not the usual reaction to an announcement made in a prison cell, she had to admit. But then, nothing about their circumstances was really normal. She sat in the room's sole chair; he had stood up from the bed at her announcement, as if the words had electrified him.

"I'm sure," she said, and laughed as he crossed the room to lay the palm of one hand against her belly. "Lafayette, it can't be more than eight weeks, you aren't going to feel anything."

"Eight weeks," he repeated, as if she had just revealed one of the great mysteries of the universe. But words beyond that point proved a bridge too far. "We…" he began, but lost the rest of the sentence somewhere in the curve of his own smile.

"We're going to have a child," Peggy finished for him, and kissed him with the force of her own happiness, with the promise of this sudden, beautifully inconceivable third person now in the process of existing.

The words repeated endlessly in her head, a delirium of happiness.

 _We're going to have a child. Lafayette and I are going to have a child._

"I was thinking," she said, as he knelt beside her, that same look of childlike wonder in his eyes.

"Of?"

"Names," she said. "I know it's early yet, but—"

"Prison," he said with a knowing smile. "Not much to do but think."

She nodded. It still felt like tempting fate, talking of names this early. She couldn't count the number of women she had known who had felt confident in their pregnancies, only to lose them before delivery. But fate had taken so much from them over the years. Surely it would let them have this.

"If it's a girl, I thought Philippa," Peggy said hesitantly. "After my father."

"Philippa," Lafayette repeated, testing out the sound of it. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"Good," Peggy said, grinning. "My father lives for having children named after him. I think Eliza did it twice. And if it's a boy, I thought we could name him after your father."

To her surprise, Lafayette shook his head. A thoughtful cast came into his eyes—not for the first time, she wished she could follow his thoughts the very moment he was having them.

"I barely knew my father, Peggy," he said slowly. "I never said a word to him. He died before I could talk. No. If I were to name our son after a better father to me than that…How do you feel about Georges?"

Peggy blinked. Then blinked again. Lafayette waited in quiet silence, not reacting, saying nothing. Obviously he had expected this kind of reaction, and patiently waited to see what her shock would become.

 _If he guessed "indignation," that's a bet he'd win._

"Georges, after Washington?" she demanded.

A stupid question, she knew. As if Lafayette could have had another Georges in mind. He merely nodded.

"The man who abandoned you?" she went on, letting the indignation build. "Who took your service for free and turned his back on you? The man who's let you sit in prison for over a year?"

Lafayette stood up. His posture did not seem angry. He would not contradict her. But she sensed a note of sadness in him when he responded, as if he would have given anything just to make her see.

"He taught me everything," he said. "I would not be who I am without him. And he treated me like a son. He truly did. Can I blame him for protecting his country? Can you blame him for that? He is one of the best men I have ever met."

The shame rose hot in Peggy's face, and for a moment she could not meet her husband's eyes. Where did it come from, Lafayette's superhuman capacity for forgiveness? She would never understand it. Could never hope to cultivate it in herself. Her anger was the lingering kind, the slow burn that outlasted the winter and crackled through the spring.

But at Lafayette's words, she felt the last wisps of her anger float away. She didn't have to understand. It was enough that Lafayette had forgiven, and his forgiveness caused her love for him to surge forward, rendering the rest beside the point.

"Yes," she said, "all right then. If it's a girl, Philippa. And if it's a boy, Georges."


	22. Mothers, Sisters, Wives, Women

Fun fact: I actually decided to outline the rest of this story chapter by chapter. Which yes, I know, is unlike me, as I'm the single least organized human being I've ever met.

As best I can tell, we should have about three chapters following this one, give or take, before I make it to the end. In other words, I'm actually going to follow through on my promise of finishing before I die, which is reassuring! I know you all had your doubts, because I'm physically incapable of regular updates, so again, thanks for sticking with me.

Anyway, enjoy this little three-section chapter, which ends with possibly the fluffiest couple hundred words I've ever written in all my days on this earth.

* * *

XXII.

 _23 November 1793  
_ _New York City_

"Eliza."

The door did not open.

Alexander sighed, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he shifted to the opposite leg, both eyes on the ground.

"Eliza, please. I need to talk to you."

If a door could have spat at someone and turned its back on them, this door would have done it.

From the other end of the hall, he saw a small head peek around the corner, a mop of curly hair, black eyes—but the moment he met those eyes, the child vanished. William, probably. The boy clung to Eliza like a burr, and when his mother had retreated to the parlor and slammed the door, Will had started to cry.

That had been hours ago. Since then, Alexander had wandered through the house, with an undeniable sense of the space Eliza would have taken up, if she were there. As if her ghost did not leave enough room for her husband to walk these halls. He caught himself on the word "ghost," but did not replace it in his mind. It did, somehow, feel as if someone had died.

Straightening his back as if she could see him through the door, Alexander spoke again. A little louder this time, to be heard, if not seen. Words would save this. Words had to.

"Eliza, love, I'm so sorry. I'm not saying I didn't make a mistake. I did. I made a mistake. But I had to write it. My reputation was in question. The value of the Constitution and our government was in question. It was the only thing I could do."

He knew she could hear him. The doors were not thick, the house old and drafty. He used to hear her and Phillip singing in the front parlor when he was three floors up in his study. Back when she still sang. The silence hung so heavily he wondered if she were even breathing.

"I want to make it up to you, Eliza. I want to make it better. Please, tell me what I can do."

It occurred to him as he stood there, watching the door, picking out patterns in the wood grain, that he could not remember the last time he had apologized. To anyone. For anything. The words tasted sour in his mouth, but he forced himself to sit with their flavor, not to spit them out in favor of another justification.

Silence was his reward.

On the other side of the door, Eliza sat in the bay window with her back against the glass. The surface chilled through her dress, but she knew that wasn't why she was shaking. She did not look at the door, instead letting her eyes drift across the room. Seeing little, thinking about none of it.

Until her gaze tripped over the desk beside the piano, where a pile of papers currently spread across its surface. At least twenty sheets, each covered with Alexander's writing. Narrow, leaning, yet expansive.

His writing.

His words.

 _His words, his words, his words._

She wanted to ball them up and throw them, one by one, into his face, until he choked on his own lying, worthless words.

"Eliza, please, let me in," he said from beyond the door. "Tell me what I can do."

She did not move. Her voice was like the wind whistling through a hollow drum, through an empty skull, through bone.

"Go away, Alexander."

A long, cold pause, and then the sound of footsteps, slowly retreating back down the hall in the direction of his study.

Her sobs surprised her—so loud against the silence, so sudden.

They frightened her. They ached. And she could not make them stop.

#

 _20 December 1793  
_ _London, England_

"Darling, I know you're worried. But it won't be long. Just an hour or two. I promise."

John leaned over to gently massage Angelica's shoulders, but she roughly shrugged him away. The low lamplight cast a flattering glow as she sat in front of the vanity in the bedroom, watching the backward reflection of her husband draw back half a step. Faint offense glittered from each of his restrained movements.

They had both been dressed and ready for ten minutes, he in his finest suit, she in a rose-colored gown that left her shoulders bare, sweeping like a waterfall out from her waist. But though she was ready, she made no attempt to move, and none of John's gentle coaxing seemed to have stirred her.

He tried again, his smile showing thin around the edges, hollow at the center.

"I don't particularly want to go either, love, but Lord and Lady Cavanaugh hold a tremendous deal of power in Parliament. They've been most insistent about wanting to meet you."

"I know," Angelica said, her words so low they were barely audible. "You've said."

It was what he _hadn't_ said that mattered to her.

He hadn't said that he knew she did not want to spend another evening being stared at, John Church's exotic American wife. That her own happiness and comfort mattered more to him than the entitled whim of some member of the House of Lords she had never met. That he knew her thoughts were on her sisters—both of them—and that he was concerned for them as well.

But she knew he would never say any of this. Forming words like that would require a spine far stronger than the one barely keeping John Church upright.

She pushed back her chair and stood up, almost smiling to herself as John drew back in unmasked alarm.

"One hour," she said, reaching for her shawl. "I have letters I need to write before morning, and I don't intend to let the Cavanaughs of all people hold me up."

John swallowed heavily as he followed her out of the bedroom and toward the front door, out into the gaslit street where his phaeton and driver waited at the curb.

"To whom?" he asked finally, as though he'd been building up the courage to ask the question for days.

Angelica looked down at the hand John extended to her, then, ignoring it completely, helped herself into the carriage. Chagrined, he followed, closing the door and signaling the driver to move.

"Captain Wentworth," Angelica said. "I need him to reserve me a place on the next ship to New York."

No part of the sentence held any note of asking for permission.

"Two places," he corrected her softly. "Surely you know that I'm going with you. If you truly must go."

She shouldn't have resented John as much as she did, she knew that. He was only trying to love her the best he knew how, even if no one had ever taught him the first thing about loving a woman before. But the way he looked at her, with the woundedness of a baby bird with a broken wing, made her want to jump out of the carriage and run. Run and never look back.

She sighed. "John. My sister needs me."

 _And she doesn't need you._

John had removed the monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, and was now quietly wringing it between his hands in a restrained, refined need to throttle something.

"Darling," he said. "I know you don't respect me. But do at least try to pretend in front of the Cavanaughs tonight. They are damnably important."

She did not respond.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. He wringing the handkerchief, she thinking in turn of Eliza in tears, of Peggy in prison, and of how desperately she herself needed a drink.

#

 _11 March 1794  
_ _Olmütz, Austria_

The pacing, Lafayette knew, was not even remotely helpful. In fact, it was probably making things worse.

He reached the far wall of the tiny room, pivoted, and paced back toward the door. He was anxious enough as it was—there was no need to add physical agitation to the hurricane currently throwing his thoughts to the four corners of his brain. He had tried sitting still, cultivating the kind of detached calmness that had carried him with confidence through two revolutions. But the longer he sat in one place, the more his very skeleton seemed to revolt, as though his skin were too small for his bones. And so he'd pounced to his feet and begun this stalking, desperate circling of the room.

Waiting for news. Hearing none.

He didn't know how long Peggy had been gone. Hours, at least. It was dark outside now, but the light through the small barred window had shone with the clarity of mid-morning when her contractions began to quicken. Not knowing what to do, he'd pounded frantically on the door, shouting himself hoarse until a guard arrived.

"She's going into labor," Lafayette had said, gesturing frantically over his shoulder at his wife.

The guard had stared, eyes wide and vacant as a goldfish. "What in God's name do you want me to do about it?"

Lafayette could have screamed. He might have, in fact. Through his panic, he had not been the best judge of the volume of his own voice. "There has to be a doctor in this goddamned prison. Jesus Christ, get her to a doctor!"

And to the guards' credit, they had. Leaving him alone, locked in this cell, desperately waiting for any information at all.

When he'd lain awake at night over the past nine months, imagining his first moments with their child, he'd always thought he would be more levelheaded. He'd literally stared down cannons, surely he could handle a natural process that happened as many time as there were people on the planet. But in the moment, his soldier's discipline had utterly failed him, and instead he found himself here, in this state of frenetic useless energy, walking and thinking in circles.

 _Worrying will not change anything. She will be fine. Just wait. Sooner or later, they have to tell you what is happening._

They didn't have to, of course. But he would not allow himself to think of that possibility. Every time the thought reared its head, he shoved it away again, focusing his attention on the steps required to traverse the tiny room, again and again and again.

"Lieutenant general?"

Lafayette tripped over nothing. Twisting to catch himself on the chair at the last minute, he whirled around, aware of the panic that must have been reflected in his eyes but unable to care. In the doorway, a young guard stood with military straightness, his body filling the empty space, his expression impassive. He might have been announcing a miracle or Armageddon.

"How is she?" Lafayette asked. His voice broke slightly, but he felt no shame in that. "Do you have any news?"

The guard's expression did not so much as flicker. "I've come to bring you to her, lieutenant general. If you're ready."

"If I'm ready—" Indignation choked the tail end of his repetition. "God damn it, take me to her."

Lafayette followed so closely on the guard's heels that he was at great risk of tripping over the man's shoelaces. The guard had not bothered to bind his hands, for which Lafayette was grateful—he did not have the time to waste, and any idiot could see he was not going to run away. Following in the shadow of the man's footsteps, they wound through the prison's stone corridors, each step driving his anxiety almost past bearing.

Until at last, the man stopped outside a plain wooden door.

"She is inside, lieutenant general. I will have to lock you in. You understand."

Not all the riches in all the world could have persuaded Lafayette to give a damn.

He shouldered his way past the guard, flinging the door open and bursting into the room like a tornado trapped in human form. In the corner of his mind, he heard the door shut behind him, and the turn of a key in the lock. But his attention was focused entirely on the scene now before him, a scene that caught his breath in the hollow of his throat.

The prison hospital hardly merited the name. A single cot against the far wall, cheap linen curtains drawn against a square window. Beside the bed, a long, low table strewn with various medical instruments, a pile of wadded-up cloths, a basin of water.

In the bed, the blankets pulled up to her waist, lay Peggy. Her gown damp with sweat, hair sticking in messy tendrils to her face. Deep shadows beneath her eyes. Sitting half-upright, her back resting against the wall.

And in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket, an impossibly small child, head dusted with fuzzy black hair, fast asleep.

She smiled at him, jerking her head to indicate that he should come sit beside her on the edge of the bed. He did, feeling as he did so that he was watching his own body from half a mile above.

"Peggy," he murmured, looking down at the tiny child, watching the blanket gently rise and fall with its minuscule breathing.

"Well, Georges?" Peggy said softly, speaking to the child. "Would you like to say hello to your papa?"

 _Georges._

 _A son._

 _My son. My God, look at my son._

He didn't know if the wave building in his chest meant he was about to laugh or cry. Either would have made as much sense as the other.

Moving as if beneath thirty feet of water, he reached out, and Peggy gently shifted Georges from her own arms into his. The weight, the warmth of the child against his chest felt like how he had always imagined heaven must feel. He carefully supported the child's head in the crook of his elbow, holding him as gently as if he were made of glass.

"Peggy," he said again, his voice low, almost reverent. "He's perfect."

"He is, isn't he?" She smiled. "He must get that from me."

Lafayette grinned. "Of course."

A small shift, a tiny sound like the sigh of a wren, and then Georges de Lafayette opened his large black eyes and looked up into his father's face.

 _Oh._

He could think of nothing more eloquent than that, in any language.

It seemed impossible that he could ever love anything or anyone as much as he loved the tiny boy in his arms, looking up at him with those perfect eyes.

No one but Peggy. She reached out to place one hand on his knee, smiling to match Lafayette's smile. He cradled Georges closer, murmuring softly to him in French.

" _C'est moi, mon petit. C'est Papa. Et je t'aime plus que le monde entier, tu le sais?"_

 _It's me, little one. It's Papa. And I love you more than anything in the world, do you know that?_

Georges did not smile. He had been in the world for under an hour; he had not yet learned how to do that. But the solemn, sincere look with which he fixed Lafayette at that moment spoke as clearly as any words could have done. That look of belief. Of total, unblinking trust.

Of love.

"We did that," Peggy said, squeezing Lafayette's knee slightly. Her smile took on a knowing air as Lafayette bit his tongue slightly, trying not to cry. "Together. We did that."

"Yes," Lafayette said, never turning away from Georges. "We did."

 _Our son._


	23. The Emperor

Fun fact I discovered while researching this chapter: If you Google "Napoleon and Lafayette," at least half the results are about the two cartoon dogs from _The Aristocats._ Which, being a child of the 90s, I am 100% OK with.

* * *

XXIII  
 _Paris, 12 April 1796_

After almost five years in prison, standing in the center of the Rue de Rivoli felt like landing on the surface of the moon.

Lafayette looked down the small cobbled path leading up to the townhouse. How many times had he stumbled down that path at three in the morning, tired and elated after a day arguing constitutional minutiae with Jefferson and Danton and the rest? This was his house, his city, his country. And yet it had never felt more foreign. He had never felt more lost.

Sensing the shift in her husband's mood, Peggy reached over and took Lafayette's hand with her left, giving it a small squeeze.

"It looks different, doesn't it," she said.

Lafayette shook his head. "It looks the same. That's what unnerves me."

She smiled. "Come on. Standing here in the street all day won't make it any easier."

He bit his lower lip, but nodded. Looking at the respectable brick walls, the newly repainted shutters, he thought of his old life as a too-low doorway, forcing him to stoop to make himself fit.

Peggy knew Lafayette too well to let him brood. She started up the path, leading Georges along beside her. At just over two years old, the youngest Lafayette had nearly skipped the walking stage, moving straight into running. His mother had learned by now never to let go of his hand if she could help it.

Lafayette held back a moment, watching the pair of them with detachment he had grown used to over the past several months. _Is that really my wife? Is that boy my son? What have I done to deserve this family?_

In another man, the thought might have been sentimental. In Lafayette, it was a twisted sort of fatalism, the belief that anything this good would never, could never last.

Still, Peggy was right. Standing here in the street staring at his own house wouldn't make it any easier to reclaim his old life.

He followed his wife and son inside, gently closing the door after him.

His footsteps seemed to sound louder against the wood floor than he remembered. Warily, he slipped off his jacket, draping it over the small end table near the door. Had he really lived here, once? Had this really felt like home? Perhaps it would, again, soon.

At the far end of the hall, a framed picture of his father hung beside the door to the parlor. The elder marquis had sat for the portrait three years before Lafayette himself had been born. In the painting, he looked every inch the dashing infantry captain, the buttons on his uniform gleaming like Spanish gold, his sword hanging from his belt. His eyes— _Georges' eyes, they have the same eyes_ —seemed to look directly at Lafayette from the frame, asking a question Lafayette did not understand, and would not have known how to answer even if he had. He shivered.

A cold sort of home, indeed.

"Monsieur Lafayette."

Slowly, he turned. He knew the voice that had called him, would have known it anywhere. But the tone, the cold apprehensive seriousness, was unfamiliar. He longed to see the owner of that voice. But he was not convinced he would like the subject of conversation.

"Catherine," he said, giving her a cautious smile.

Catherine's expression was a complicated one. Relief, primarily, as she crossed the hall, wringing her hands in front of her like a caricature of concern. Lafayette watched as her eyes swept over his body, and he knew she was forcing back a barrage of comments about how thin he had become. But the relief was tempered by something else. Fear.

He was sure, in that moment, that they were not alone in the house.

"Welcome home, monsieur," Catherine said. "I…I've worried about you. Constantly."

That, at least, was unreservedly true. Lafayette's smile warmed. Catherine laid one hand on either of his shoulders, as if to reassure herself that he was still a mortal man, one who could be touched.

"You've kept the place up beautifully," he said. "I knew I could count on you."

"You…" she began, then paused.

"Yes?" he prompted.

She swallowed, then tried again. "You have a visitor. He heard you would return today, and he has been waiting since nine."

Lafayette glanced over his shoulder toward the grandfather clock on the east wall. Three fifteen. Whoever this eager visitor was, he had the patience of a god.

"Well, I suppose I had better see him, hadn't I?" Lafayette remarked drily.

"He's in the south parlor, monsieur." Catherine almost whispered the words, as if afraid the visitor would be whipped into a rage by the mere mention of the room.

A thought occurred to Lafayette, one that caused him to grimace. "It isn't Danton, is it?"

Catherine's eyes widened. "No, monsieur," she said, as if Lafayette had just asked if his visitor were Alexander the Great. "Monsieur Danton is dead. Desmoulins, Marat, Robespierre, all of them dead."

Lafayette knew he should have felt something at the news that the men who had put a price on his head had been killed. But at Catherine's words, his heart gave a tremendous, decisive shrug.

"Well," he said, "that would rather preclude their visiting, wouldn't it?"

Catherine scowled at him, as if he were a child still and had just said something inappropriate at the dinner table.

Lafayette laughed. "I take your point. My wife and I will attend to this visitor, Catherine. If you wouldn't mind watching my son?"

The moment he finished saying the words, he remembered that this was news to Catherine. Every trace of apprehension vanished from her face, replaced immediately by a joy so wholehearted it was almost transcendent.

"Your son?" she repeated.

Peggy laughed, still holding Georges' hand—the sound of conversation in the hall had apparently attracted her attention. "We have a lot to talk about, I think, Catherine," she said, grinning.

"Apparently," Catherine said, looking at Georges in surprise.

"Georges, this is Aunt Catherine. Go on," Peggy said, urging the child forward, as Georges shied back behind Peggy's legs. "She's very happy to meet you."

"I've hoped to meet you for years," Catherine said, smiling broadly. "I've told your papa many times I hoped he'd have a son."

"She has," Lafayette said drily. "Constantly."

Catherine, ignoring him, bent down and extended her arms. In a moment, Georges flung aside his shyness and succumbed to Catherine's charms immediately. The housekeeper appeared to be in raptures. Lafayette and Peggy could have been struck dead by a divine thunderbolt and it would have taken her several minutes to notice.

Lafayette laughed quietly under his breath, before indicating the south parlor with a motion of his head. Peggy nodded, and side-by-side they crossed the hall, passing beneath the watchful painted eyes of Lafayette's father before entering the room.

In the south parlor, a man in full military dress leaned backward against the chimneypiece, his arms casually folded in front of him. A delicate-looking man, of average height and slightly built, he reminded Lafayette of the students in the Quartier Latin, wan and sickly youths who seldom emerge from their books except to stumble from one tavern to the next.

The man looked up as Lafayette and Peggy entered the room. His blue-gray eyes locked immediately on Lafayette's, with a sharpness that threw the marquis off-balance. Those eyes dispelled any notion of weakness or illness. Lafayette felt truly _seen_. Not just his appearance, but his motivations, his beliefs, his lies and his ambitions, all laid bare before this strange man in his parlor.

It was not a comfortable feeling. Particularly not in one's own house.

"Monsieur le marquis," the man said, carefully enunciating each syllable. "And madame la marquise, I assume."

"You assume correctly," Peggy said. She did not extend her hand to the man; he gave no sign he would have taken it even if she had.

"I apologize for having kept you waiting," Lafayette said.

"No apologies are necessary," the man replied, in a tone implying the opposite. "I am a patient man."

"Had I known you would call this morning, Monsieur…"

"Bonaparte," the man said, filling in the gap Lafayette had left. "And it's 'Commander.' To be accurate."

Lafayette raised his eyebrows silently. So this was Napoleon Bonaparte, the daring French commander that had raised such fear and hatred in the Austrians in Olmütz. The hero of the Siege of Toulon and of the War in the Vendée.

 _Somehow I imagined he'd be taller._

"Well, this is an honor, Commander," Lafayette said.

He gestured at the nearest chair, inviting Peggy to take a seat. She did, keeping her eyes on Napoleon, who—after a pause that seemed deliberately disrespectful—sat opposite her.

Lafayette remained standing. An advantage would be hard to come by in a conversation with this man, he could tell already. Height was a petty one, but he would take it.

Napoleon settled into the armchair, crossing one leg over the other. Those sharp blue eyes continued staring through Lafayette, pinning him in place for examination, like a butterfly to a card. "You look terrible, Monsieur Lafayette."

Lafayette's eyebrows remained raised. "I have been out of prison for four days, Commander. You can hardly expect me to be performing gymnastics in my parlor."

"All the same. The Republic would be hard-pressed to lose you. I would recommend a physician, with some haste."

It felt strange, receiving a compliment veiled in what might have been a death threat. Fortunately, Peggy responded, giving Lafayette time to regain his balance.

"I have made my husband an appointment with one of the pre-eminent physicians left in Paris, Commander," she said. "I assure you, your concerns over his health are appreciated, but unnecessary."

Napoleon smirked—perhaps he meant it as a smile, but something was lost in translation between the idea and the execution. "I can see that. You are quite lucky, Monsieur, to have a wife who is so solicitous for your well being."

"I am," Lafayette agreed tersely. He moved to take Napoleon's abandoned position against the chimneypiece, leaning against the wall in what he hoped looked like a relaxed manner. His legs ached from the journey, but he'd be damned if he'd let Napoleon catch him sitting in a moment of weakness. "Might I inquire as to the purpose of your visit? You must be quite eager to see me, if you're willing to wait six hours."

"As I said," Napoleon said easily, "I am quite patient."

Lafayette, on the other hand, was not. "All the same."

Napoleon smiled, appearing to enjoy Lafayette's discomfort. "You will be aware, I assume, Monsieur, that the Republic finds itself in need of a stronger government. After all, the horrors of the Terror cannot be allowed to repeat themselves, can they?"

Lafayette would have raised his eyebrows still further, had the basic laws of anatomy permitted it. "You cannot truly think a return to terrorism likely, Commander. Not under the circumstances."

"No? Forgive me, Monsieur, but as I have been in France for the past five years, while you have been secluded in Austria, perhaps I would be a better judge of the nation's temperament."

The insult struck Lafayette like a punch to the stomach. As if he had chosen to be captured. As if he'd been relaxing at a mountain chalet while Napoleon ran the country with a military fist. But his first day out of prison was not the best time to start making enemies. With great effort, he swallowed his own offense, trying to salvage the situation with diplomacy.

"Perhaps. All the same, I think you can understand my hesitancy over the words 'stronger government,' Commander. Particularly in light of my recent experiences with the Revolutionary Tribunal."

Napoleon snorted. "I am a student of history, Monsieur. I rather think myself capable of learning from past mistakes. But I'll get to the point, because I can tell your wife would like nothing more than to have me thrown through your parlor window."

Lafayette glanced at Peggy, just in time to see her deliberately uncurl her hands from fists.

"I want nothing of the kind," Peggy said, in a voice that convinced no one.

Remembering his wife's track record of punching French politicians who irritated her, Lafayette had to force himself not to laugh.

"I am in the process of assembling a government, Monsieur," Napoleon said.

Lafayette started, but Napoleon seemed not to realize he'd said anything surprising. His tone was as casual as if he'd said, "I am in the process of buying a new set of china for my dining room."

"Is that so," Lafayette said carefully.

"And while I know that you have been…out of the public sphere for the past several years, I have always been a great admirer of your work, Monsieur. Particularly in the American campaign. I find myself in need of a new ambassador to the United States. And I can think of no better man than you for the job."

 _Ambassador to the United States._

Five years ago, it might have been a compelling offer. To link the two republics he had fought to build and preserve. The natural solution to the problem of his split consciousness, too French to be American and too American to be French. Working in tandem with his friends and brothers on both sides of the ocean. It might have been everything he wanted.

Now, looking at Napoleon, lounging across his armchair like a player king in a cut-rate theater production, it almost startled him, how deeply revolting he found the offer.

A man like this, at the head of France's new government. A man who would not stop with the power granted to him by the constitution. A man who would keep grasping, keep striving. Who would stop at nothing to advance his own interests.

A king was restrained by propriety and precedent. A king's breeding made absolute power banal, so run-of-the-mill it was almost not worth talking about. But a man who made himself king. Now there was a tyrant to fear.

Liberty meant nothing to Napoleon, Lafayette could see that at once. Only power held any meaning. And Lafayette had no interest in power, not anymore.

He looked at Peggy. He knew that his thoughts showed transparently on his face, but he made no effort to disguise them. Their silent conversation was brief, but spoke volumes. She understood him—had always understood him, sometimes better than he understood himself—and knew he could not accept. Not an offer like this.

She nodded. He nodded back, then returned his attention to Napoleon.

"I thank you for the offer, Commander," Lafayette said politely. "But I think you can understand that I have had quite enough of politics for one lifetime."

Napoleon snorted again. "You? The Marquis de Lafayette, had enough of politics? Can a fish have enough of water?"

"Very well," Lafayette said coldly. "Say, rather, that I have had enough of tyranny."

Napoleon stood up. Peggy, alarmed by the movement, rose as well, but Napoleon raised a hand, indicating that she had nothing to fear. She sat again, though she did not appear in the least convinced. The two men looked silently at one another for a moment, Napoleon's small body almost poised for attack, Lafayette still leaning easily against the chimneypiece. After a long, tense moment, Napoleon spoke.

"You may think me a tyrant, Monsieur Lafayette. But you will see soon whether I work for my own good or the good of France. And remember, with this government in place, all it takes is a word from me, and I can remind this country why it hungered for your blood in '93."

Lafayette did not flinch. "If that was meant to convince me you are _not_ a tyrant," he said, "I'm afraid you miscalculated its effect."

"Commander Bonaparte," Peggy said.

Napoleon flinched—evidently he had not expected her to say anything, but Peggy did not care about living up to his expectations.

"I don't know what kind of manners they teach military men these days," she went on coldly. "But you have come into my home. You have frightened my housekeeper. You have threatened my husband. I think these are reasonable grounds for me to tell you to get the hell out of my house. _Now_."

Napoleon glared between the two of them, but neither Lafayette nor Peggy showed any intention of backing down. Finally, like a fox backed into a corner, he scowled and moved toward the door.

"Think it over, Monsieur," he said coldly.

"I already have," Lafayette replied.

And Napoleon was gone.

Lafayette sank down on the sofa beside Peggy, leaning his head on her shoulder. She reached over and put one hand on his knee, softly stroking his hair with the other.

"What a distasteful little man," she remarked lightly, as they heard the front door slam behind him.

Lafayette laughed. "I'm afraid we haven't heard the end of him."

"I'm sure we haven't," she agreed, "but I don't care. We're home, Lafayette. That's what matters."

"Yes," he said. "We're home."

Eventually, perhaps, he would start to feel that way again.


	24. Now I Have Everything

And here I am again, apologizing for taking like literal years to update. Better late than never?

Just one more chapter after this one, an epilogue of sorts. And if there's any justice in the world, I hope to have that baby up this weekend.

I'll have a more sentimental author's note as we close out the show, obviously, but for the time being, thanks again for sticking with me. For your lovely reviews and general badassery. And, of course, for your patience. (I know, I'm slow as a snail stuck in molasses in a school zone, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.)

* * *

XXIV.

 _8 October 1797_

Peggy settled down to wait in the parlor, beside the wide window overlooking the grounds of Chavanaic. She had thought she would hate living here, in this small chateau where her husband had grown up. But every day, the close, comfortable rooms grew on her. Nowhere near as elegant as their former Parisian townhouse, but much more approachable. The rooms were larger, airier, with the dark, lived-in feel of a hunting lodge somewhere in the Pyrenees.

The quiet of the place, too, soothed her. Its isolation never once felt like loneliness. If she wanted to ride in the early morning mist, or hike up her skirts and teach Georges to climb trees, there would be no disapproving strangers to stare at her and scowl. Here she could let herself loose. Laugh loudly and hear the echo resound from the woods circling the chateau.

And Lafayette, too, could learn to laugh again.

He entered the room now, dressed in a waistcoat worn soft over nearly a decade of use. A hint of color had returned to his face since their move to the country, and he looked sturdier, less likely to be blown away by a breath of wind. Georges perched proudly on Lafayette's shoulders, enjoying the view from near the ceiling.

Lafayette held his son steady with one hand, carrying a letter in the other. His expression, though reserved, was grim.

Peggy stood up warily. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

 _Don't let today be another of his difficult days. Today was supposed to be perfect. All four of us, together. He needs this. I need this._

But while Lafayette's flashbacks, his too-vivid waking dreams, still came with wearying regularity, now was not one of those times. He handed the letter over to her, while Georges' wide eyes watched them from above.

"You will want to read that before they arrive," he said.

Peggy frowned and unfolded the page. "Not good news, then," she said, beginning to read.

Lafayette hesitated, hoisting Georges off his shoulders and down onto the floor. "Not exactly, no."

 _Not exactly,_ as Peggy was quick to discover, was something of an understatement. Her eyes flickered across the page, narrowing down to slits with each line. By the time she reached the bottom of the page, she was scowling like an evil spirit. Quite abruptly, she crumpled the page in her lap and stood up, knocking two pillows from the sofa in her haste.

"I will kill him," she said, and started for the door.

Alarmed, Lafayette's eyes widened. "Where are you going?"

"To New York," she said, already halfway into the hallway. "To kill him."

Lafayette lunged after her, barely catching her by the elbow before she turned the corner. "Peggy, for the love of God," he said, "there will be no murder in this family, not if I have any say about it."

"He is not my family anymore," Peggy snapped, "therefore you don't."

" _Maman_?" Georges asked, inserting himself between his mother and father—or, more accurately, between his mother's and father's knees. "Who are you going to kill?"

" _Maman_ is not going to kill anyone _,_ " Lafayette said.

"Your Uncle Alexander," Peggy said, in exactly the same moment.

Lafayette sighed deeply and ran one hand over his mouth. Plainly there were many things he would have said to his wife if they were alone, but few of them were appropriate when his child was also in the room. And in any case, their conversation had just become a good deal less private—as Peggy was just discovering.

"Angelica!" she shouted, suddenly forgetting her anger. "Eliza!"

"Peggy!" both sisters said in unison.

All the rage drained immediately from Peggy, replaced by a wild flash of joy. She had been looking forward to this moment since the second she knew it was going to happen. No, for weeks before that, for months. Years. Ever since her wedding, when she set foot on the ship to Brest alongside Lafayette, since then she had never stopped thinking of this moment. The moment when both Angelica and Eliza, arm-in-arm as if they were still children, would visit her in France, sweeping into her house, smiling ear to ear.

She gave a small cry—perhaps slightly immature for a woman, wife, and mother of her age, but she'd be damned if maturity would hold her back—and threw her arms around Angelica and Eliza at once. It would be a miracle, at this rate, if she did not cry.

"My God, Peggy," Angelica said, breaking the embrace but not the smile. "Look at you."

"Still alive," Peggy said, spreading her arms as if to display the proof. "Despite the world's best efforts."

"It would take more than anything the world can do to change you, Peggy," Eliza said.

Peggy wished she could have said the same for her sisters.

It had been years since she'd seen them. They were still themselves, of course, in all the ways that mattered. Angelica's shining dark eyes, quick and clever and witty. Eliza's warm, sympathetic smile, the open-book expression. But there was no denying that the two elder Schuyler sisters seemed…

Tired.

Desperately tired. Tired of everything.

Peggy could see thin strands of gray shooting through Eliza's hair. The faintest impressions of crow's-feet at the corners of Angelica's eyes. Their smiles were genuine, but slightly out of practice. Even away from the ripple effect of violent revolution that had prematurely aged France, Angelica and Eliza had not escaped the pressure of time.

The sadness ached slightly in Peggy's chest, but it was a sweet ache. A kind of empathy, of understanding. She had never loved her sisters more than she did in that moment.

Everything had changed, and nothing had.

"The Schuyler sisters," Lafayette said, from the other side of the room. "As beautiful as the first night I ever saw you."

"Lafayette," Eliza said warmly, and both she and Angelica embraced him in turn. "You look well," she added, somewhat hesitantly.

Lafayette laughed. "You are a wonderful woman, Eliza, and a terrible liar. But I am quite well, I promise. Better, to see the two of you here."

"It seemed like a good time to take a trip," Eliza said, not quite meeting her brother-in-law's eye.

Clearly sensing her discomfort, Lafayette raised one finger, as if to say _wait a moment._ A half-smile at the corner of his mouth, he crossed the room to peer behind the sofa. Realizing what he was doing, Peggy laughed.

"My son," she said to her sisters, by way of explanation, "is petrified of strangers."

Lafayette dropped down to his knees, disappearing entirely behind the sofa. Only his voice could be heard, speaking in soft French, gently coaxing. The sound of another voice—smaller, higher, and petulant—followed, voicing a stubborn protest. At the first syllable of Georges' voice, both Angelica and Eliza made the kind of half-stifled squeak of excitement reserved for women meeting their nephews and children receiving a new puppy.

Finally, Lafayette seemed to win some headway, as he straightened up to his full height, balancing Georges on one hip. Eliza's hand rose to cover her mouth without her seeming to realize she'd done it. Angelica looked at Peggy, mouthing _Oh my God_ with exaggerated enunciation.

"This little gentleman is Georges," Lafayette said, with an apologetic smile as Georges buried his face in his father's shoulder. "Georges, this is your Aunt Eliza and Aunt Angelica. _Les deux soeurs de Maman._ _Tu peux dire bonjour_?"

" _Bonjour,_ " Georges said, his voice muffled against Lafayette's shoulder.

Angelica looked liable to drop dead on the spot from the sheer volume of childish charm. Eliza, on the other hand, spoke to Georges with the practiced tone of an eight-time mother.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Georges," she said, quite seriously. "May I shake your hand?"

Georges peeped out, surprised at the request. Biting his lower lip with evident misgiving, he looked at Eliza for a long moment, as if she were a strange dog that was equally likely to lick his face as bite his hand. Finally, he stuck out one small, pudgy hand, which Eliza took with great ceremony.

"Thank you," she said. "I hope we will be great friends."

Georges said nothing, but turned away from Lafayette and reached his arms out toward Eliza. Lafayette smiled, the expression making him look ten years younger.

"I think the little gentleman would like to say hello," he said wryly.

"I'd like nothing better," Eliza agreed, taking Georges in her arms and sitting on the sofa. The little boy perched contentedly on her lap, nestled close against her, watching as his parents and Angelica took the remaining seats in the parlor. Peggy beside Eliza, Lafayette and Angelica on armchairs opposite the sofa.

"I don't know how you do that, Eliza," Peggy said, shaking her head. "It took him three weeks to warm up to his tutor. We had to bribe him with chocolates."

"Practice," Eliza said with a shrug. "Three of mine were shy. They're all right now, of course. Staying with Dolly and James, while…"

A cold note came over the group, none of them quite sure what to say. Peggy, noticing the letter lying still on the carpet, quietly nudged the page under the sofa with the side of her foot. The joy in seeing her sisters did not abate, but the rage crept back slowly around the corners, the insatiable need to punch something making itself known. Lafayette raised an eyebrow knowingly in her direction, and she nodded curtly.

 _All right, Lafayette, I will behave. But my God, you are asking a great deal._

"You have not spoken to him since…" Peggy said.

"No," Eliza agreed. She looked down at the carpet, eyes directly on the spot where the letter had been. "I have not seen him, in fact. Not since the…"

The whole group of four, apparently, had come down with a sudden inability to finish a sentence.

"That seems like a good idea," Lafayette said, shifting slightly in his chair. "Some space."

"That's what I said," Angelica agreed. "Give him time to—"

"To write another ninety-five-page pamphlet describing how he seduced a stranger off the street and let her husband blackmail him for over a year?"

" _Peggy,_ " Lafayette groaned, and pushed both hands backward through his hair.

Peggy cringed. She had not meant to yell that. She'd had every intention of keeping those particular words locked safely in her own head. But the road to hell, as they said, was paved with good intentions. She took a long breath and made a valiant effort to modulate her voice, keeping her expression pointedly calm.

"I don't want to upset you, Eliza," she said carefully. "I just can't bear to think of anyone treating you that way. You're a saint, I swear, and I won't apologize for hating him after he hurt you. If you don't want me to speak of it, I promise, I won't say another word, but…"

Eliza, to everyone's manifest surprise, grinned. "Do you know what I want to do this afternoon, Peggy?" she said.

Peggy hesitated. "What?" she asked warily.

"I want to listen to you call Alexander every name you can think of, for as long as you can."

Angelica choked out a laugh. A wicked smile spread across Peggy's face. Only Lafayette, who had known Peggy better than anyone over the past several years, looked vaguely apprehensive.

"Eliza," he said, "are you sure you have time for _every…_ "

"Believe me," Eliza said grimly, "for this? I have time."

"Do you?" Peggy asked. "Are you sure you have time for me to call him a two-timing son of a Scotsman, an human-sized ego with legs, a walking dictionary that thinks with his—"

Twenty minutes later, Peggy had exhausted herself, verbally and physically. It had felt so wonderful, to give full and complete vent to her rage, with no one making any effort to stop her—in fact, with both her sisters urging her on. She had not been entirely sure she _could_ stop, once she started.

Lafayette's reaction had been complicated, but then, he'd been Alexander's friend, at one point. Even though the now-Secretary of the Treasury had abandoned Lafayette completely when he stood most in need of help, still, they had fought a war together. That kind of bond was not easy to break. But the longer Peggy ramped up into her insults, the more he seemed to grow comfortable, until at the end he made a contribution or two of his own, a French phrase so vulgar that Peggy thanked God Georges had fallen asleep in Eliza's lap ten minutes earlier.

"Peggy, I have to admit," Eliza said, gently stroking Georges' soft, dark hair as she spoke, "that was not why I came to France, but if I had known how good it would feel, I would have come weeks ago."

"Please," Lafayette said quietly, "do not encourage her. I still need to live with her."

"You should come back to New York and tell Alexander yourself," Angelica said, ignoring Lafayette.

Peggy smiled, gently lifting Georges from Eliza's lap and shifting him into her own. "Don't tempt me," she said, "or I'll do it."

"I wasn't joking," Angelica said. "How long has it been since either of you have been in New York? When are you planning to come back? We…"

"We miss you," Eliza finished.

Peggy had no doubt they did. Each trapped in their own unhappy, complex marriage, of course they would want to see her. See Peggy living the adventurous life they'd always known she'd follow, with a husband who stayed at her side and took care of her child, who plainly loved her as much as he had the day he'd met her.

But go back? To New York?

What was there in New York but a country that had betrayed her husband, a country that did not understand what they had been through, could never understand?

What was there in New York that she did not already have, here, in Lafayette's arms?

She felt him looking at her from across the parlor, a faint smile in his eyes, and she smiled back. Lafayette was older now, as she was older. He was not the carefree, naively chivalrous soldier of nineteen he'd been back in Albany, that winter night when he had taken her hand and her heart in the same moment. He was a man of thirty-nine, as she was a woman of thirty-seven. His face was thinner, more shadowed, his hair slightly sparser and leaning toward gray. She herself was softer around the edges now, her body fuller after childbirth, and she saw every morning the fingerprints of wrinkles spreading deeper.

But she was still his wife, and he her husband.

Everything had changed, and nothing had.

"Perhaps we will return someday," she said, with a shrug.

"Perhaps," he agreed.

"But if we moved back to New York," Peggy finished, "what reason would you have to come visit me?"

Eliza smiled, sadness haunting the curve of it, and for half a moment, Peggy almost felt guilty. "I don't need a reason, Peggy. You're my sister. You'll always be that, wherever you are."

"Always," Peggy agreed.

Angelica nodded, as if sealing some sort of covenant. "Always."

A small knock on the side of the open parlor door drew all four of their attentions at once. Lafayette, startled, half-rose to his feet, but quietly sat back again once he spotted who it was. Catherine, hair now almost entirely gray but eyes still as quick as ever, stood in the doorway, a sheepish expression on her face.

"What is it, Catherine?" he asked with an encouraging smile, evidently to reassure the housekeeper that she had not interrupted anything private.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Monsieur," she said. Lafayette and Peggy raised their eyebrows in unison—Catherine had never been sorry for intruding one time in her life. "I have a letter that's just come for you. From Paris."

Lafayette frowned. "From Paris," he repeated. "From whom in Paris?"

Peggy felt her apprehension building; she looked down at Georges, the reassuring warmth of his sleeping form, grounding herself in this present peace. The warring world outside could not touch her. Not here. She and Lafayette would not let it.

"From Commander Bonaparte, Monsieur. His messenger said it was urgent."

Peggy closed her eyes, letting out a long, low sigh. Beside her on the sofa, she could feel Eliza's surprise radiating from her, could sense Angelica's dark eyes quickly darting between Peggy and Lafayette, trying to make sense of this news.

 _My God. I thought we were done with this. I thought we were finished. Just once, I dared to hope they would leave us alone._

"Thank you, Catherine," Lafayette said.

Peggy's eyes snapped back open again. That tone in her husband's voice, it did not make sense. There was no reason for him to sound so cheerful, so pleasant, upon receiving an urgent message from Commander Bonaparte on a Sunday afternoon.

There was no earthly reason why he should currently be _smiling_.

"If you would be so kind, Catherine," Lafayette continued calmly, "please burn the commander's letter, and tell his messenger there will be no reply."

Angelica, Eliza, and Catherine stared—Peggy felt a small laugh escape her, a spontaneous sound of relief.

 _That's the way, Lafayette. That's the man I fell in love with._

"Monsieur?" Catherine asked, stunned.

Lafayette shrugged. "I am with my wife and her family, Catherine. I have no interest in what Commander Bonaparte has to say, and will not for the foreseeable future."

He spread his arms wide, indicating the contents of the room, Peggy's wicked grin, Georges' steady breathing and faint snores, Angelica and Eliza's looks of collective disbelief.

"As you can see," he finished, "I have everything in the world I need right here already."

On that note, Peggy was in perfect agreement.


	25. A Matter of Time

Well, team, we actually made it! It's been over a year since I said to myself, "Hey, you know what absurd ship actually makes a lot of sense in my brain? Lafayette and Peggy. Let's see what the internet thinks."

Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, and motivated me to write over 70,000 words of Peggy/Lafayette romantic shenanigans. I don't know why you humored me, but I'm bowled-over delighted that you did.

This is the chapter I've always known I'd end with, so it felt totally bananas to actually write it. Hope you enjoy, and again, thanks for sticking with.

Okey-dokey then, let's do this thing.

...One last time, if you will.

* * *

XXV.

 _4 November 1824  
Charlottesville, Virginia_

" _Vous êtes certain que vous vous sentez bien_ _, Papa?"_ Georges asked, fixing Lafayette with a serious expression from across the carriage. _"Le voyage ne vous a trop fatigué?"_

Lafayette smiled and shook his head, as if his son were seven years old again and had just asked an endearingly simple question, why the sky was blue, whether pigs had wings. "English, if you will, Georges. It's impolite here to speak French. And yes, I feel quite well. I have no intention of dropping dead this afternoon."

Georges rolled his eyes. He'd grown into a handsome man, Lafayette thought, watching as his son leaned back against the seat and the emerald fields of Virginia rattled past their carriage windows. A little too sure of himself, a little too concerned with the cut of his jacket and the shine of his pistol, but then, that was to be expected in a single man of thirty. Lafayette had been just the same, as a young man.

Of course, now he had no need for frivolities like that. He and Peggy were approaching their fortieth wedding anniversary. At this stage, it took the full weight of a state visit to induce him to purchase a new suit.

For a state occasion of this magnitude, he had even purchased two.

Peggy, seated beside him in the carriage, peered out the window, craning her neck to see further down the road. Her hair had grayed early, decades before, and laugh lines danced filament-like around her mouth. In the warm Virginia light, Lafayette thought he had never seen her look so beautiful.

"We should be there soon, shouldn't we?" she asked. "My God, I need to get out of this coach. Six hours from Washington, and nothing to look at but fields the whole way."

As if the driver had heard her, the carriage shuddered slightly, then bore to the left, taking a small side road deep into one of the cotton fields. Lafayette leaned across Peggy to catch a better look at the large house looming at the end of the drive.

Seeing it fully, he choked.

Arresting. That was the only word for it. The warm red brick and white marble shone with anachronistic, neoclassical grace, its columns as out of place in that Virginia cotton field as a rabbi in Saint Peter's. Built on the verge of a clear pond, the house seemed even more absurd in reflection, its countless windows and sprawling expanse shimmering slightly through the water. And atop it all, the scandalously ostentatious dome, crowning the whole majestic mess like a Roman temple, an homage to the southern god who had designed and built it.

"It's perfect," he said, shaking his head. "Exactly what he would do."

Peggy, following his gaze, gave an impolite snort of laughter. It made her sound like a young girl again, the same kind of disdainful sound she had made a hundred times in her twenties. "No one," she said, "has ever accused him of modesty."

The carriage slowed to a stop at the end of the drive. Before the driver could clamber down from the box to open the door, Georges hopped out, helping Peggy down to the drive. Then, with an air of ceremony, Georges gave his arm to Lafayette.

Lafayette's mouth narrowed slightly. To think that he was reduced to this. The Marquis de Lafayette, lieutenant-general of the Revolution, leaning on his son's arm, knees trembling like an old man…

But then, sixty-six was not young. And his joints ached now, most of the time, but especially after sitting for longer than an hour. They had plagued him all afternoon, causing him to bite his tongue whenever the carriage traversed a rough stage of road, though he had taken care not to let Peggy or Georges sense it. He felt, sometimes, that his body was exacting revenge on him, for the cavalier way he had taken it for granted in his youth.

Lafayette shook his head slightly, as if to dismiss the ruffled feathers of his injured pride. There were worse people to depend on than your own son.

He let Georges steady him as he descended from the carriage, smiling his thanks to the driver as the man handed him the silver-topped cane he had procured for the journey.

The party had only taken a few steps toward the house before the door flung open, and a tall man in a long violet coat appeared in the doorway.

It had been decades, of course. Men changed, given that long. The striking red hair had faded to white. The once-upright frame now stooped slightly, a slight tremor to the elegant hands. But the smile, that was the same. That slightly off-center smile, wider than the Mississippi, stretching up to his clever black eyes, unfogged by time.

Lafayette would have recognized this man anywhere. "Ah, Jefferson!"

"Ah, Lafayette!" Jefferson said, beaming.

"And Peggy," Peggy reminded them, smiling broadly as she took Lafayette's arm.

 _My dear wife, as if anyone could ever forget you._

Despite his age, Jefferson hastened down from the porch to meet the Lafayettes in the drive. Without a hint of the old arrogance or showy decorum he'd worn like a badge of honor as the French ambassador, Jefferson spread his arms wide and embraced them both warmly, like a brother.

 _Like a true friend, uncolored by betrayal,_ Lafayette thought, but stopped himself before continuing. This journey was not the time to remember old failings on the part of those who could no longer defend their actions, their cruel neutrality. It was too late for "forgive and forget," but at least for the day, he would try his best to ignore.

"It's good to see you," Jefferson breathed, stepping back to look at them both fully. "So very, very good to see you."

"You as well, my friend," Lafayette said. With a wry smile, he nodded his head at the house. "And it is good to see this monstrosity in person. I confess, when I heard you had built your own Versailles in the middle of a cotton field, I did not believe it."

Jefferson laughed. "I've been told drawings do not do it justice, either. It must be seen to be believed. Dear God, and this must be your son. Georges?"

"Yes, Mr. Jefferson. A pleasure to meet you," Georges said, masking the French lilt in his voice as best he could. He bowed deeply and well. Lafayette felt Peggy squeeze his arm gently, a silent message, _We did well, my love. A son to be proud of._

"Well, come in, come in," Jefferson said briskly, as if just remembering he was eighty-one years old, not an excitable child of eighteen, and that people of their age and station conducted business indoors.

Jefferson ushered them into the house and down a long, carpeted hallway, toward a sitting room decorated in various shades of green. Lafayette sat down rather heavily on the sofa opposite the window, sighing softly as the ache in his knees sharpened, then relaxed. Peggy sat beside him, taking his hand. Georges paused a moment in the doorway, looking back into the hall with an expression of wonder in his eyes.

"Mr. Jefferson," he said, "would you mind if I looked around the—"

"My dear boy, nothing would give me greater pleasure," Jefferson exclaimed, the expansive manner of his younger days returning, though restrained by age. "Monticello is meant to be looked at. Go across the hall and tell Stevens he is to give you the full tour."

"Thank you, sir." Georges gave a small half-bow and excused himself into the hall.

Jefferson, smiling still, settled into an armchair opposite the Lafayettes. "Is your son really so passionate about neoclassical architecture?" Jefferson asked. "Or is he, like any young man, bored to tears by old men and women reminiscing?"

Peggy laughed. "We have dragged Georges from New Haven to Washington already. If he hears one more old man call Lafayette the 'Fighting Frenchman,' I think he will throw himself into the Potomac."

"Clearly Americans do not have high standards for heroes, Thomas," Lafayette remarked, "if both you and I somehow qualify."

"I quite agree," Jefferson said, crossing one grasshopper-like leg over the other. "I agree entirely. Oh, thank you, Mary, but perhaps later. Let us talk for a few minutes first."

Lafayette and Peggy glanced up, toward the door. A dark-skinned woman stood in the doorway, holding a silver tea tray in both hands. She dropped a low curtsey and disappeared back into the hall, keeping her eyes low, never saying a word. Both Lafayette and Peggy shared a glance, and Peggy shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Lafayette squeezed her hand in his, then cleared his throat. They were in the United States only for a few months, and for the first time in nearly fifty years. Strangers, essentially, by now. Did his opinion count for anything? Or was he simply meant to appear as a heroic figurehead of times past, illuminating the glory of the revolution and winking at the injustice of the present?

 _What would Laurens have said, were he here?_

Seemingly oblivious to their discomfort, Jefferson spoke, a small note of melancholy creeping into his words. "Who would have thought it. That the three of us would be here, still, with so many others gone."

Lafayette's eyes dropped to the emerald carpet.

 _So many._

And one, of course, in particular.

The memory returned again, as it had time and again. The evening two weeks before, when he had stood alone on a sweeping hillside in Virginia.

 _The verdant landscape sprawling in front of him. Moses, climbing to the peak of the mountain. Moses, old but not yet gone, looking forward into the Promised Land. Moses, having arrived too late._

 _The tomb at his feet. Not a monument to the founder of a nation. Not a mausoleum in the heart of the city that now bore his name. Only a simple, marble tomb, here at the home he had loved, beside the wife he had loved, in the country he had loved._

 _Alone, Lafayette had wept, for the loss of a father._

 _His secret hopes of introducing his son to the giant for whom he had been named._

 _Too late._

 _Lafayette had remained at Washington's tomb until the sun descended behind the hills of Mount Vernon, until purple twilight softened into dusk, until the mournful aria of a barn owl circling the property startled him back into the present moment. He had bent to one knee, aching joints protesting the movement, and kissed the tips of his fingers, then pressed them against the tomb, tracing the letters of Washington's name with his fingertips._

" _Thank you," he had said aloud._

 _Somehow, he had felt then, it seemed as if Washington heard._

 _Then he rose, took a deep breath, and turned back toward the house, where Peggy and Georges waited on the veranda._

"I never thought we would outlive him," Lafayette said. He did not need to specify who he meant. "Somehow I always thought he would live forever."

"So many of them," Peggy said, leaning against Lafayette. "Washington. Laurens. Alexander. Angelica…"

Lafayette heard Peggy's voice crack over the last syllable. Quietly, he reached over and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. She accepted the gesture, but said nothing about it.

He had not been there beside her, when she visited Trinity Church on their way through Manhattan. He had offered, of course. But she had told him, gently but firmly, that this was one visit she had to make alone.

 _The churchyard was smaller than she had expected. When Eliza had written of it, years earlier, Peggy had imagined a vast, sprawling field, like the grounds ringing her and Lafayette's chateau in Chavaniac._

 _Foolish, she realized now. The idle imagining of a grief-stricken brain prone to fantasy. There were no fields in New York, scarcely any trees, barely any sky. This small grove, ringed by a high iron fence, neatly kept grass, five or six maple trees shading it from Wall Street without, was the closest to Eden that Manhattan could offer._

 _She sat on a small stone bench, hands folded in her lap, looking at the three gravesites standing side-by-side._

 _The largest, of course, was his. A soaring obelisk, a wholly unnecessary quantity of marble, as ostentatious and profligate in death as he had been in life. Never use one word when ten would do. Never settle for a grave marker when one could have a monument. Not until she saw his grave did Peggy realize she had never quite forgiven Alexander, for what he had done to her sister. Not until she saw his grave did she realize she did not plan to._

 _The small space, empty still, beside him. Eliza's, one day. Planned in advance. Taking her time, for which Peggy was grateful._

 _And the third, near them both, a simple headstone, one that tore at Peggy's heart, threatened to break down her defenses, force her into tears again, years after the fact._

 _Angelica. Buried next to Alexander. Well, Peggy was not surprised. She'd known since Eliza's wedding. Everyone knew. Everyone with eyes._

" _I'll miss you, sister," Peggy said quietly._

 _Don't, she could almost hear Angelica saying. I'll see you later, little sister. Enjoy yourself, until then._

"It does something to one's perspective," Jefferson sighed, shifting slightly in the chair as though his back troubled him. "Death, I mean. It makes you wonder. What was it all for? All our work. How hard we tried."

Lafayette glanced toward the window, where the midafternoon sun streamed through and dotted the green wallpaper with flecks of gold. Charlottesville was miles from the coast, he knew. It was foolish, to think he could see the ocean from here. And yet, he found his mind wandering to the Atlantic, painting an image of its turbulent waves, painted with the sun. An ocean separating his two homes, two revolutions.

So different, both, yet in so many ways the same.

So much lost, so much won, in both.

"It was not for nothing, my friend," Peggy said. "We've had losses, but they meant something. They did."

 _My friend,_ Lafayette thought, smiling to himself. Forty years ago, Peggy had threatened to break every one of Jefferson's fingers. "My friend," she called him now. A revolution of sentiment, in its own way.

"Look around," Peggy continued. Her smile had a sadness to it, the bittersweet reverie that came only with age. "Look at where we are."

Jefferson looked out the window, at the sweeping lands around Monticello, at the Virginia he had dedicated his political life to protecting.

Lafayette looked, instead, at Peggy.

How far they had come, the two of them. Two children in a heady ballroom, wild, stupid, quick to fall in love and slow to think of consequences. A soldier and a covert agent of the revolution, fighting for two ideals at once, the right to freedom and the right to love. A new-made husband and wife, leaning over the rail of a ship, looking naively eastward toward an approaching shore. Two souls trapped in the whirlpool of a country descending into terror. Two prisoners, free in each other's eyes.

Parents. Citizens. Lovers.

The very best of friends.

Sensing his thoughts, Peggy smiled—the same smile as ever, age would not touch that. A soft smile that spoke of memory, of affection, of promise.

Of time gone, and time still to come.

"Look at where we are, indeed," Lafayette said, and kissed her.

Fin.


End file.
